


The Decaydance Weightloss Competition

by shallowlives



Series: The Decaydance Weightloss Competition Universe [2]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Canon Jewish Character, EDNOS, Eating Disorders, Gabe is both and EDNOS/OSFED oops, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Patrick's bulimic, Purging, Suicide Attempt, Touring, Warped Tour 2008, William and Ryan are anorexics, basically they're proana buddies and it's fucked lol, mostly wentzporta but some gabilliam moments, ryan is a jerk sorry i promise i love him tho, unhealthy competition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shallowlives/pseuds/shallowlives
Summary: “We’ve taken to calling it ‘The Decaydance Weightloss Competition.’” William giggles. “Not that it actually is, though. We’re not really competing. If we did, we’d be exchanging our stats obsessively, but we don’t really do that. It’s just... we get each other, you know? A little push in the right direction never hurts if it’s asked for.”Gabe nods slowly. “Yeah…  it doesn’t sound too bad.”“So, are you in?” William asks. “Because I could use someone to talk during tour, maybe even keep me accountable? No pressure, though. I know it’s not for everyone.”“Sure, why not?” Gabe responds, without much of a thought. “I think it’d be good.”-----------Gabe becomes entangled in the so-called Decaydance Weightloss Competition with William, Patrick, and Ryan. Needless to say, it's very disordered.
Relationships: Gabe Saporta/Pete Wentz, William Beckett/Gabe Saporta
Series: The Decaydance Weightloss Competition Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107443
Comments: 22
Kudos: 15





	1. 2007

**Author's Note:**

> So here we go with the unexpected prologue/extension to the wentzporta fic I wrote for Chanukkah. It's somewhat inspired by the fic oh, comely (which has since been orphaned) where Patrick and William compete, because that fic made me think there was already a fic where they were competing with Ryan too, but then turns out there wasn't and I was mistaken, so I decided to write what I really wanted to read and also add Gabe as the main character.
> 
> This fic will have 3 parts: 2007, 2008, and 2009. 2008 will probably be the longest while 2009 will probably the shortest, but I have yet to finish the fic yet so who knows? I did my best to make it as "accurate" as possible, or as accurate as a fic can be when I made Gabe fuck Pete and I have limited knowledge of who has actually had an eating disorder and how far it goes (not that it's my business, anyway), but keep in mind I was busy playing Webkinz in 2007 rather than paying attention to emo and 2000s culture so there could be an inaccuracy/creative liberty here and there. But it's a fanfic, so who cares? I also don't mean to imply or speculate on anything, I'm just projecting past experiences onto these dudes lol.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! Obvious TW for eating disorders and fucked up shit as usual.
> 
> **Hotlines and resources for eating disorders: https://edresources.carrd.co/**

**2007**

“They’re  _ always _ hanging out together,” Gabe tells Pete, who is currently busy downing his third beer of that night’s penthouse party and takes a second to notice who Gabe’s pointing to. In the corner are Patrick, William, and Ryan, standing around with red solo cups in hand and leaned in toward each other, deeply engrossed in some serious-looking conversation.

“I mean, I guess,” Pete says with a shrug, and he takes another sip of his beer. “I don’t know. Maybe they just get on well.” He holds his beer bottle out to Gabe. “Want some?”

“No thanks.” Gabe shakes his head wisely. “I’m good.”

“You haven’t drank at all tonight. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly going straight-edge again on me.”

“No, ‘course not,” Gabe says. “I’m just trying to be a little healthier and save all the drinking for the Honda Civic tour. And someone has to drive you home.”

_ “Sure _ you are,” Pete snorts, finishing his drink with one last hearty gulp. “That better not be your excuse to get black-out drunk.”

“No, I don’t mean  _ that.” _ Gabe sighs. “Alcohol is empty calories. I just think if I’m going to drink something that has practically no nutritional benefit, I should make it worth it. I wanna drink with my friends. Not here, around a bunch of rich music execs and producers I don’t care as much about.”

“Don’t get so philosophical when you’re sober.”

“It’s not philosophical,” Gabe scoffs. “It’s common sense.” He glances at the group in the corner again. “They’re still talking.”

“All they’re doing is having a conversation.”

“But they’re  _ always _ doing it when they’re together.”

“Then go ask them about it while I get another drink.”

“I’m not going to do that.” Gabe crosses his arms and turns to Pete, but he’s disappeared in search of the kitchen counter lined with drinks, leaving Gabe no other choice but to turn back to the group and resolve to ask them why Patrick, William, and Ryan always hung out in their little posse. He doubts it would be anything terribly interesting, but at least it would satiate his curiosity.

Gabe makes his way over to the group, catching a piece of their hushed conversation as he nears. “...like, you would  _ not _ believe the shit I had yesterday,” William says completely seriously. Patrick and Ryan nod completely seriously in response. Gabe wonders what the hell he’s walked in on, but there’s no going back now.

“Whatcha guys talking about?” Gabe interrupts, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling window that takes up most of the wall. His purple hoodie almost blends in against the bright purple and light-polluted city sky.

They all spin to him fast, startled by his appearance. “Oh.” William blinks. He holds a cup of something completely clear, either vodka or plain water, as does Ryan, while Patrick is partaking in delicate, tiny sips of beer and holding a paper plate piled high with appetizers from the fancy charcuterie board, from thin slices of salami to thick squares of cheese. “Well… um, just talking about songwriting stuff, you know?”

“So you’re writing a song about your shit, then?” Gabe asks. “The future of pop-punk music is more dire than I thought.”

“We weren’t talking about that at all,” Ryan defends. “What do you want?”

“You guys are  _ always _ hanging out together at parties and stuff,” Gabe says, and all three of them bristle slightly. “Why is that?”

“None of your business,” Ryan spits.

_ “Ryan,” _ Patrick says, and he turns to Gabe with a kind smile. “I mean, I guess we do talk to each other a lot. I guess we just have similar styles with writing lyrics and music. Poetic kinda stuff, right?” And he stuffs a clump of salami into his mouth.

“You don’t write poetic stuff,” Gabe says. “I mean, not that your lyrics are bad. But compared to Pete’s, I think yours are more to the point.”

“Anything’s poetic compared to you,” Ryan says. “You write about wanting to fuck a cobra.”

“No.” Gabe is very tempted to educate Ryan on the irony of Cobra Starship’s lyrics, but that’s a dissertation he’s already given too many times. Instead, he settles for, “At least, not yet.”

Patrick grabs a handful of crackers from his plate and downs the rest of the beer in his cup. “I’ve got to use the bathroom if you guys will excuse me.” He hands off his plate and cup to Ryan. “Feel free to eat the rest.”

When Patrick’s out of hearing range, Ryan asks, “Isn’t this his  _ third _ plate?”

“I think so,” William says.

“You guys want any?” Ryan holds out the plate to Gabe and William, who both shake their heads even though Gabe is well aware his stomach will growl in protest later. “I’ll toss this, then. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Gabe turns to William. “You’re all acting kinda weird.”

“If you think we are,” William says with a chuckle, “then pray you never find out why.”

“Or it’s because you guys are drinking.”

“Not me,” William says, holding up his cup. “I’m just having water. Alcohol is just empty calories, y’know? I’d rather save it all for the Honda Civic tour, when people will be watching me more closely.”

The eerie familiarity of his statement sends a chill down Gabe’s spine. “Uh… right. Me too.”

“Really?” William calculatingly eyes Gabe up and down, and the intense observation makes Gabe wish he could disappear right then and there, as if every single flaw on his body is exposed for his past hook-up to see. “Gabe Saporta, not drinking? That’s unusual.”

“I just want to be healthier before tour,” Gabe says. “That’s all.”

William hums understandingly and guesses, “Orthorexia?”

Gabe furrows his eyebrows at William. “Ortho-what now?”

Eyes wide, William brushes it off quickly. “Nevermind. Forget what I just said. Um, good luck with the whole not-drinking-before-tour thing.”

“You too,” Gabe mumbles, straining to keep his eyes from wandering across the bandana tied around William’s stick-thin thighs and the way his shirt drapes loose over his flat stomach, exposing his hip bones whenever he stretches. Ryan makes his way back over as well, and Gabe immediately studies his sharp jaw, his lithe neck.

He feels almost guilty;  _ why _ does he keep looking at skinny people like this?

Gabe quickly says bye to William and Ryan, and goes off to find Pete.

  
  
  
  


It’s not until months later, toward the end of the year, that Gabe finds out why those three are so close. He’s on the Sleeping with Giants tour he hadn’t expected to tag along on, but after finishing the record early over the summer, they didn’t have a tour for the fall until William had suggested Cobra come along.

This means Gabe has much less time than he expected to prepare, but not in a musical sense. He knows all the lyrics, all the right notes and sultry stage moves. He just hasn’t lost enough weight, that’s all.

It’s the first tour Gabe, in this context, has actually had to put some work into and therefore the riskiest. If any one of his bandmates catches him skipping meals or forcing himself to throw up, he’s going to have to find a way to explain his newfound dieting habits. And if he does  _ too _ good a job and faints on stage in front of everyone, it’ll be even worse than going down quietly. In the twenty-first century, the event would be captured by cell phones and cameras, theorized about on message boards and blogs, asked about at meet-and-greets for long after.

But Gabe’s worries turn out to be fruitless. Nobody seems to care or even notice that he doesn’t partake in all the hummus taking up half their tour bus fridge. Whenever he spends days in his bunk, complaining about being exhausted and needing another nap, it’s chalked up to a hangover or that he’s still getting used to the exhaustion of tour life. If his bandmates go out to dinner, Gabe stays behind on the bus and lies he’ll eat leftover pizza.

It takes a few shows before they arrive at a venue that has a scale in one of the bathrooms, the big, bulky kind you have to insert a quarter into. Unfortunately, Gabe notices it when he’s walking into the men’s restroom beside Alex, Ryland, Carden, and William, so in order to use it, he has to point to it and ask, “Hey, does anyone have a quarter?”

“To weigh yourself?” Ryland asks.

Gabe nods, and William digs in his pocket for a moment before handing him a quarter. “Here. I’ve got more quarters in my wallet, if you guys want to try it too.”

And that’s how weighing themselves becomes that afternoon’s shenanigan, which Gabe would have much rather not had happen, but fuck, is it  _ triggering _ .

Gabe gets onto the scale first, but just as he raises his coin to the slot, he becomes aware how heavy his pockets are and empties them of his cell phone and wallet. “Can someone take these?”

“Why?” Alex asks.

“I want it to be as accurate as possible.”

“I don’t think it matters--”

“I’ll take them,” William says. “But only if you hold my stuff while I weigh myself.”

Gabe hands him his cell phone and wallet with a grin. “Deal. Oh, wait.” He takes off his hat. “Take this too. Oh, and this,” he says, ignoring all the judgmental looks he’s shot and shedding his purple hoodie to fling it at William. He catches it easily with his nimble, thin fingers. Gabe would kill for those fingers.

“You might as well take off your shoes, too,” William suggests, glancing down at Gabe’s sneakers.

“Shit, you’re right.” Gabe bends down to loosen his shoelaces. “I gotta do that too.”

“Are you  _ seriously _ taking off your shoes in a public restroom?” Ryland asks.

“Yes, keep up,” Gabe snarks back, tugging one shoe off and chucking to the floor before getting to work on the other one. William, already holding most of Gabe’s belongings, shoots Ryland a look. With a sigh, Ryland picks up the discarded sneaker. When Gabe tosses off his other shoe, he stands back up straight and looks down. “Okay, is there anything else I could have forgotten?”

“Maybe the rest of your clothes,” Carden jokes.

If this was his scale at home, Gabe would be very tempted to strip down as well, just for accuracy’s sake, but that’s neither here nor now. He ignores Carden and inserts the quarter into the scale, anxiously waiting for the slip of paper to roll out and determine his self-worth.

The piece of paper comes out silently, without much fanfare, and a collective silence falls over the group as Gabe tears it out of the slot and reads it, skipping over his fortune. All his work over the last couple weeks summed up in one number: 147.4 lbs.

A smile grows. He’s lost over  _ three _ pounds. THREE! Sure, he could have lost more, but considering he’s already eaten today and previously kinda sorta felt like a fat sack of shit, three pounds is remarkable.

“So, what is it?” William asks, unable to help his curiosity.

“Oh, it’s like, a hundred-sixty-two,” Gabe lies, coming up with the number on the spot before shoving the slip of paper into his pocket. He’ll save it for later, to look at whenever the urge to binge strikes next. He practically leaps off the scale, grabbing his shoes from Ryland and shoving them back onto his feet. “Who’s going next?”

Alex opens his mouth, but William is quick to blurt out, “Me!”

Gabe has barely gotten his other shoe on when William shoves his stuff back at him and excitedly bounces onto the scale. William hands his cell phone and wallet to Carden and tosses off his sneakers as well, prompting Carden to remark, “Really, you too? You realize how many germs are probably on that scale, right?”

“Shut up, I’m wearing socks.” William puts in his quarter, exhaling a deep breath and staring up at the ceiling until he hears the light whir of the paper. He swiftly snatches it and holds it up high, hiding the number from anyone who would peek. Eventually, after studying it for a few moments, he says, “Huh,” and puts it in his pocket.

“What was it?” Gabe asks.

“One-hundred-and-forty-two,” William smoothly rattles off, gracefully stepping off and taking his shoes from Carden. “Who’s next? I’ve got plenty more quarters.”

Ryland shrugs and says, “Why not?” and gets on the scale without bothering to take off his denim jacket or heavy shoes.

William moves next to Gabe as he wrestles his shoes back on and whispers playfully, “No way you’re a hundred-and-sixty.”

“Well, there’s no way you’re a hundred-and-forty either,” Gabe retorts, glancing across the woven bracelets around William’s thin wrists, the bandana tied around his lanky legs, the bartskull necklace that accentuates his collarbone.

“Touché.” William manages to get his shoelace tied and leans towards Gabe’s ear, his cold breath making the other shudder. “I have a scale on my bus. I’m really around one-hundred-and-twenty-eight point six.”

“You have a  _ scale?” _ Gabe’s heart leaps in elation. “Can I use it?”

William tosses back a strand of hair from his forehead, tilting his sharp jawline along with his head as he thinks, before finally saying, “Maybe.”

“A hundred-eighty-three!” Ryland shouts, victoriously holding up his piece of paper. Everyone politely claps, forgetting they’re in a public restroom, except for Gabe and William, who look at each other. Sure, Ryland is an inch taller than Gabe, but even so, Gabe doesn’t understand how he can be so casual about it. If Gabe was a hundred-and-eighty, he’d want to die.

_ He’s lucky he looks as good as he does, _ Gabe thinks, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror across from them.  _ The weight must all be muscle. _ Because although Gabe weighs much less, he’s sure he’s much fatter. His thighs have shrunken, but he’s still achingly far from a  _ real _ thigh gap, and his arms are covered in layers upon layers of fat that makes him ashamed to wear t-shirts, because if he does, all his arms will do is jiggle and flap around. There’s no way in Gabe’s mind that anything about the way he looks is  _ healthy. _

_ 3 pounds is nothing. I can do better than this. _

  
  
  
  


Later that night, after his set has concluded, Gabe binges on a total of forty-six potato chips, three cans of beer, a whole tub and a half of hummus (without crackers, he embarrassingly licks it off his fingers), and two leftover slices of pepperoni pizza (which makes it the first time in years he’s eaten neither vegetarian nor kosher, but his stomach doesn’t care).

The only viable option is to get rid of it.

Rather than stink up the tour bus bathroom, he decides to run back into the venue around the time TAI’s set would be ending, telling his bandmates he left his cell phone even though it’s right there in his hand. After a minute of back-and-forth with a security guard who pretty much refuses to read his name right (really, does it matter whether Gabe’s Sephardic Jewish last name sounds Italian or not when he’s in a hurry to destroy his body?), he’s let back in and heads straight in the direction of the restroom. He races past the scale he paid for earlier and into a stall, locking it shut before dropping to his knees and sticking his fingers down his throat.

He prods. Once, twice. He makes a hacking sound, his eyes water. Three, four. His stomach lurches. Five, six, seven-- the vomit shoots up, dropping from his mouth into the toilet with a  _ plop _ and the loud sound of his retching. When the vile smell reaches his nostrils, it only nauseates him more.

When it’s all come up, and the back of his throat aches and his knuckles sting with cuts, he finally gets an opportunity to gasp for breath, falling back against the stall door in exhaustion. After a couple of moments, he spits out the rest of the acid in his mouth, tears off toilet paper to wipe his chin with, and flushes before struggling to his feet and pushing open the stall door.

Waiting against the sinks for him is William Beckett, his arms crossed.

“William.” Gabe gapes. “Look, I can explain--”

“So, let me guess,” William says, looking Gabe up and down. “Bulimic.”

_ “Bulimic?” _ Gabe demands. “No! Of course not, what the hell? I actually worked hard to lose weight, just because you caught me throwing up this one time means nothing--”

“I get it, just don’t let Patrick hear you say that. But you do admit to having an eating disorder, right?”

“Um…” Gabe purses his lips shut. “No comment.”

William pushes himself up from leaning against the sink and takes a few steps forward. “You can trust me, Gabey.”

_ “Not really,”  _ Gabe almost laughs. “If I did hypothetically have an eating disorder, you’d tell everyone, and I’d--”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He raises a brow. “Do you remember a couple months ago, when you asked why me and Ryan and Patrick are always hanging out together? Ryan and I are anorexic. Patrick tries to restrict too, but he’s honestly really a bulimic.”

“Oh.” The confession should hit hard, that  _ three  _ of his friends have eating disorders, but honestly, all that washes over is relief. “That’s… um, that’s cool.”

“We’ve taken to calling it ‘The Decaydance Weightloss Competition.’” William giggles. “Not that it actually is, though. We’re not really competing. If we did, we’d be exchanging our stats obsessively, but we don’t really do that. It’s just... we get each other, you know? A little push in the right direction never hurts if it’s asked for.”

Gabe nods slowly. “Yeah… it doesn’t sound too bad.”

“So, are you in?” William asks. “Because I could use someone to talk during tour, maybe even keep me accountable? No pressure, though. I know it’s not for everyone.”

“Sure, why not?” Gabe responds, without much of a thought. “I think it’d be good.”

“Awesome,” William says with a grin. He twists around, grabbing a blue gatorade from off the sink. “I bought this for you, by the way. It’s got electrolytes.”

“But a million fucking grams of sugar,” Gabe says, taking it and studying the nutrition label.

“Just drink it, dude.”

Gabe cracks the cap and takes a gulp, letting the artificially-colored liquid mask the taste of vomit on his tongue.

  
  
  
  


Before the next show, William lets Gabe hang out in his dressing room as he frantically does jumping jacks and tells him how it all started.

“I was recording Sophomore Slump with FOB,” William explains, feet pounding against the cement floor with each leap. “And I had lost, like, a  _ ton _ of weight since the last time I’d seen the guys. Patrick noticed and asked how I did it, and I was honest. He told me he was trying to do the same thing, but never got far. So I said I’d help him. Off-topic, but do you want to know how much I weighed then?”

Gabe crosses his legs, reclining into the cushy couch. “Sure.”

“One-hundred-and-nineteen point zero  _ exactly,” _ William gasps. He stops for a moment to catch his breath and stretch his arms. “That was my lowest weight. I’m so close to getting it again. Less than ten pounds to go. Anyways.” He starts doing jumping jacks again. One of his hands accidentally hits the ceiling, but William doesn’t falter. “It was just me and Patrick for a while, just doing our ‘diet’ shit, but then on the Truckstops & Statelines tour…” He inhales a breath. “Ryan collapsed right after getting off stage and I heard Spencer ragging on him about eating properly. I was...  _ so _ jealous. Honestly, I’ve always wanted to faint on stage. It’d be... validating to know that... I’m getting skinny, which sounds sick, but I don’t care. But yeah, I asked Ryan later... if he had an eating disorder.”

“And I’m guessing he said yes,” Gabe replies dryly.

“Oh, no. Not at first. He was  _ vehemently _ denying it and asked if one of his bandmates had…” He inhales and exhales. “...sent me after him, but then he eventually admitted to it…” Inhale and exhale. “...because it gave him a sense of control when he lived with his alcoholic father and then the stress of suddenly being famous and expected to be hot shit all the time. And after he said all that, he started crying and said he wanted to recover…  _ fuck, I’m tired…  _ but I told him he didn’t have to lie in front of me and that I was in a similar boat.” William finishes one last jumping jack before falling back onto the couch next to Gabe. “I better save my energy for the show. But yeah, that’s basically what happened. And now two years later, I find out you’re one of us.” He wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, leaning over and resting the back of his head on the couch armrest. “So, how long have you been at it?”

Gabe shrugs. “About a year. It’s nothing really interesting. I wanted to lose a few pounds and got caught up in it.”

“Oh, come on, there has to be more to it than that.” William narrows his eyes at Gabe. “It’s always more than wanting to lose a few pounds.” He crosses his legs, so lithely they slot together like stacked sticks. “What made you want to go  _ this _ far? Shitty self-esteem? Developing a crippling fear of food? Depression? Trauma?” His tone softens. “You can tell me, Gabe, I’ll understand.”

He hesitates, before eventually admitting, “You’ve seen pictures of me when I was kid. I was fat,  _ so _ fucking fat. But then I became pretty skinny when I was a teenager. Growth spurt, y’know? And suddenly everyone was telling me how good I looked, how skinny I’d gotten… family members would shove kugel in my face and tell me I needed to eat more. It felt good to out of nowhere be effortlessly skinny. And it was that way for a while. I could eat whatever I wanted.”

William nods understandingly.

“But now that I’m getting into my late twenties, I can’t really get away with that anymore.” Gabe sighs, picking at a thread on the knees of his black skinny jeans. “I went to the doctor a year or so ago, for the usual check-up shit, and I didn’t expect anything. But when I was weighed… I had gained fifteen pounds since the last appointment.” He looks up, meeting William’s eyes as he repeats,  _ “Fifteen. _ My doctor told me it was completely normal, that I’d start to ‘fill out’ as I got to my thirties… but I didn’t want to ‘fill out.’ I didn’t want to get fat again. If I did, my career would be over. Teenage fangirls don’t want to pay for concert tickets to see some gross old fat guy with a beer belly sing a song like Church of Hot Addiction or The City Is At War, that’s  _ absurd. _ I’m the frontman, my entire band isn’t dependent on just my talent, it’s my  _ image. _ People aren’t here for the meaning like they were with Midtown, they’re here to get off to my toned stomach.

“So I figured I’d go on a diet and fix it. I tried all kinds of stuff.” Gabe chuckles sadly. “Once I ate only applesauce for three days straight and lost two pounds, even though my stomach hurt like hell afterwards. One week I tried exercising twice a day, and this was at the same time as my applesauce mono, so I fainted twice. Luckily both times were at home, so nobody saw. I was that desperate, but it still wasn’t enough. I needed to do more. And while I was looking up weight loss tips, somehow I stumbled across a pro-ana forum.”

“No way,” William whispers, shocked. “You go on the forums? I’m too scared to do it, that somehow someone will find out who I am.”

_ Probably for the best, _ Gabe thinks, because he’s once seen a thread of just pictures of William calling him the ultimate male thinspo, and something like that is best left in the dark. “Yeah. It’s not like I lie about my identity, I say flat-out I’m a guy in my twenties. There’s a couple gay guys on the forum I go on, so I don’t stand out because everyone assumes I’m one of them. And Gabe’s a common enough name that I can go by it and no one suspects a thing. Everyone’s vague about their lives, so nobody cares if I only say something like my job involves a lot of travelling and leave it at that.”

“Does it help?” William asks.

“It helps  _ so _ much,” Gabe confides. “You heard of meanspo?” William nods, mesmerized, and Gabe continues, “We have a thread where like, you post a photo of your body and people will comment on your post everything they see wrong with it. It’s so fucking triggering, so I don’t do it often, but when I do, it’s super effective. And I have an accountability thread, where I post everything that I eat. It really helps me stay on track, because I’ve got like ten people who get notifications on it and can see how many calories I’m eating and burning off and how much I weigh-in at. People say butterfly shit like “skip dinner, wake up thinner,” all the time, and being surrounded by that is all super encouraging. I haven’t been on it very much lately though. I don’t want any of my bandmates to look over my shoulder and ask what a bodycheck is and why I posted a picture of my ribs.”

“Woah,” William says. “That’s amazing. And really, nobody’s ever suspected anything?”

“Not really. I can literally post pictures of myself in the tour bus mirror and nobody gives a shit about the background. As long as I keep acting completely normal, I could probably keep this up for a  _ long _ time.” Gabe leans back into the couch, still fiddling with the stray thread on his jeans. “So, what kind of shit do you guys do in the ‘Decaydance Weightloss Competition?’ Anything that extreme?”

“I told you, it’s more of a support group if anything.”

“Oh, come on. When you get a bunch of anorexics together, it’s never like that.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll find out soon enough,” William says observantly, and then he jumps to his feet. “I should do a little more exercise before the show.”

“Bill, you’ll exhaust yourself.”

“I haven’t fainted on stage yet,” William says, doing one weak jumping jack before leaning over and resting his hands on his knees, letting out an exhale. “And… and I doubt I will at  _ this _ weight.” He kneels down to sit and lay back on the floor, limbs splayed out like he’s a starfish. “Okay, maybe I  _ shouldn’t _ do anymore exercise before the show. But I’ve still got…” He slides his cell phone out of his pocket and holds it over his head to check it. “Twenty-three minutes. So I’ll be good.”

“That means the guys will probably be coming back here soon,” Gabe says, eyeing the dressing room door.

William waves him off. “Yeah, but I’ll be fine before then.” Still holding his cell phone, he flips it open. “I should probably text Ryan and Patrick to tell them you’re in on this now. I’m sure they’ll be excited for some fresh blood.”

“Knock yourself out.”

  
  
  
  


It’s when Gabe is backstage, watching William practically bounce off the walls on stage with energy that came from virtually nowhere, that he receives a text from Patrick.  **_So cool 2 know ur 1 of us!_ ** he says,  **_stats?_ **

Ryan texts the same a few moments later, although more bluntly.  **_txt ur hw, cw, lw, gw, ugw pls._ ** From experience on the pro-ana forum, Gabe immediately knows what he’s referring to. Highest weight, current weight, lowest weight, goal weight, ultimate goal weight.

Gabe types out the same text to each of them.  **hw 194.8 cw/lw 147.4 gw 145 ugw 120**

“What’s that?” Vicky asks, suddenly beside him and glancing at his cell screen.

Gabe snaps his phone shut and irritably says, “It’s none of your business, don’t look.”

She shrugs innocently. “I was just curious. Chill, dude. Anyways, do you want to come back on the bus? Nate brought a DVD for Night At The Museum.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Gabe says. His eyes light up when he catches a glimpse of William leaping onto Butcher’s bass drum. So fucking  _ skinny. _ William must feel ethereal. “But thanks.”

“You’ve seen TAI play plenty of times, aren’t you bored?”

“Nope.” Gabe could watch those legs all day and never be bored. “You guys can start the movie without me, I’ll be there after.”

“But we’re going to take shots every time they say the word ‘museum.’”

“That sounds great,” Gabe says dully. “Hope you guys have fun.”

Unsatisfied, Vicky glances at his eyes and then in the direction he’s looking, straight at William. “Don’t tell me you’re hooking up with him again. I’ve heard those times were truly insufferable.”

“No!” Gabe defends. “Just go watch your fucking Day At The Museum movie or whatever.”

_ “Night _ At The Museum,” Ryland corrects, suddenly beside him also. Vicky glares at him for having arrived too late to help convince Gabe to come back to the bus. “Are you sure? We’re going to do shots--”

“I told him already and he doesn’t care,” Vicky interrupts. “We’ll leave you alone, Gabe. Let’s go, Ry.”

Gabe watches carefully as Vicky and Ryland leave, and as soon as he’s sure they’re gone, he takes out his cell phone again and sends off his text of stats to both Patrick and Ryan. Ryan is first to respond; before following up with his own stats, he says,  **_didnt xpect ur stats 2b so high but i get it ur tall_ **

Gabe furrows his brows at Ryan’s words before texting back,  **_do u think my ugw shd b lower?_ **

**_mb,_ ** Ryan says.  **_i dnt want u 2 kys, but u cud prbly live wo 5 xtra lbs. js._ **

Gabe glances down at himself and decides he’ll make that decision when he’s at his current UGW. Still, he texts back,  **_thx. also ur stats r rly good._ **

**_thx. i wrkd hard 4 it. unlike some ppl. r u ana?_ **

Gabe figures explaining he’s a mix of both anorexic and bulimic would take up too much time, so he answers,  **_yeah._ **

**_good,_ ** Ryan says.  **_bulimics r weak._ **

Nausea rises up in Gabe’s stomach, and he hasn’t even thrown up since yesterday. Since then, he’s been good. He ate an apple and five almonds for breakfast, and a granola bar before his own band’s set. He’s so empty it’s glorious. So then he’s not a bulimic, not  _ weak _ if he can do this so well.

**_ur right,_ ** Gabe says.  **_they r._ **

  
  
  
  


Mid-afternoon the next day, Gabe is woken up by his cell phone’s incessant ringing. After fumbling around, he grabs it and flips it open groggily. He groans, hungover from last night, mostly because Nate had come backstage and egged him into watching Night At The Museum because,  _ “Don’t you want to see Robin Williams play Theodore Roosevelt?” _ That didn’t convince him, but then Nate had mentioned pulling out Gabe’s favorite vodka and Gabe supposed he could indulge in the useless calories just this once instead of staring at William’s legs all night. So he fell asleep drunk, and now hungover, he’s not particularly excited he’s being woken up by a call.

“Hello?” Gabe asks, his voice rough. His stomach growls in protest of its emptiness, stabbing at him and begging,  _ food, food, FOOD NOW. _

“Hey,” William says hoarsely and detached. “Um… I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt you doing anything--”

“No, you’re fine,” Gabe says, stretching his legs by kicking them upward until they reach the bunk ceiling. “What’s up?”

Hushed, William whispers desperately, “I want to binge. But I can’t-- fuck, if I do, everyone will see and I’ll be  _ so _ fat during the show tonight. Can you talk me out of it? Please?”

“Oh. Um, yeah, sure.” Gabe sits up slightly to wake himself up, being careful so as to keep his head from hitting the ceiling of the cramped space. A headache hits right back, but it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t need to think clearly for this. He’s discouraged people from binging several times, usually successfully, but that was different, all times online. This is real, this is his  _ friend. _ He has to be careful of what he says.

Keeping that in mind, Gabe asks, “What is it you want to binge on?”

“Gummy bears,” William moans. “And I want to make hot chocolate. And then eat an entire chocolate bar, and the entire bag of potato chips. I might ask Sisky Biz if I can eat his leftover burger in the fridge, too.”

“Think how many calories that all would be,” Gabe says. “Probably hundreds of calories for just one pack of gummy bears. And there isn’t even anything nutritious about it; it’s all just sugar and gelatin and food coloring. Is  _ that _ really what you want to waste your calories on?”

“No,” William says shamefully.

“Hot chocolate would just be liquid calories, too. It’s not worth it. A chocolate bar would just be as bad; literally, just look at the nutrition label. It’ll say it’s like,  _ three _ servings for one bar. You’re not even supposed to eat that much. And an entire bag of potato chips would have to be well over a thousand calories of fucking salt and grease. You would feel like shit after all that.”

“What about Sisky’s burger?”

“Where’s it from?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t even know where it came from and you still want to  _ eat _ it.” Gabe tsks. “You would have no idea of how many calories are in it. You’d have to severely overestimate the calories in the burger to keep yourself on track. And isn’t fast food made to be addictive? If you ate that burger, you might  _ never _ stop.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” William says. “You’re  _ so _ right.”

“Did I do good enough?”

“Way more than enough. Thank you  _ so _ much. That really helped.”

“No problem,” Gabe says. “I mean, now that we’ve got each other on this tour, we’ll be skinny in no time.”

Although, Gabe’s stomach has only been made more painfully empty since imagining all the food on William had described on his bus. This might not be a good day.

So logically, the only solution to keep himself from the urge to binge too is to fast.

  
  
  
  


On an empty stomach, the alcohol affects Gabe quickly when everyone’s drinking after the show; tonight is a hotel night and tomorrow is an off-day, so why not get piss drunk and deal with the consequences later?

Although the liquid warms Gabe’s stomach, it quickly makes him realize just how achingly vacant it is when it splashes down. The hunger he’s been successfully avoiding all day prods and pangs like it's poking a bear with a stick, again and again until he’s  _ ravenous. _

Everyone is crowded into one of Armor For Sleep’s rooms, and Gabe pushes past a crew member he can’t remember the name of to get to the door. There’s probably a vending machine down the hall, and Gabe will go to the room he’s sharing with Nate to get one dollar and only a dollar to buy one bag of chips and only a bag of chips. And then he’ll wait twenty minutes until his stomach stops complaining, he’ll fill up on more alcohol, and then he’ll be fine.

However, as he steps into the hallway, Gabe runs into something even better; William. Gabe stumbles toward him and grabs his shoulders, taking him aback, and slurs, “I’m hungry.”

“Oh, okay,” William says innocently. “I’ve got some forty calorie popcorn in my suitcase--”

Gabe shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to eat,” he clarifies, looking William straight in the eyes. “I want to avoid it. Let’s fuck.”

William raises his eyebrows, but shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

Gabe grabs the back of his head and plants a sloppy kiss onto William’s lips, his tongue prying between his teeth and burning like alcohol in William’s slightly-more-sober mouth. William grabs Gabe by the belt loops of his jeans, forcing his hips against him. His thumbs dip underneath Gabe’s shirt, the skin stretched over his protruding hipbones so hot that for a moment he forgets he’s kissing someone who’s practically killing himself. They slot together practically like two pieces of a puzzle, so perfectly they both wonder why they haven’t done this in quite a while; it won’t long until they stop wondering.

Eventually, William tugs Gabe in the direction of his hotel room. They only pause for a moment so William can text Sisky a warning him not to come into the room for about an hour or so, and then they fling open the door and resume, so lost in the way they lick at each other’s soft lips and thin necks William almost trips over a suitcase and Gabe has to catch him.

It’s all drunken giggles and wanton touches until William pushes Gabe onto the bed, crawling over to straddle his hips, and Gabe reaches up for the hem of William’s shirt, intending to push it over his head. Instead, William freezes, the coy smirk wiped off his face and being replaced by wide-eyed fear. Gabe stops. “You okay?”

William blinks and nods in a rush. “I’m, uh, it’s fine.” He reaches up, using his finger to anxiously comb his hair back and avoids Gabe’s eyes as he admits, “It’s just that since the last time we’ve hooked up, I’ve gotten more self-conscious of my stomach.”

“You don’t even  _ have _ a stomach,” Gabe says, bewildered. “And you’re always lifting up your shirt during shows--”

“I know, but it’s different when people touch it. If I take off my shirt--” William looks back down at Gabe and pleads desperately, “--you have to promise you won’t touch my stomach at all. Please?”

“I swear.”

“Good.” William inhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Okay. You can take my shirt off. Just… be slow.”

“I will.” Gabe gently takes the hem of William’s shirt again, raising it above his chest and pulling it over his head before tossing it to the side. William keeps his eyes closed the entire time, and shivers once his upper-half is exposed. “You good?”

“I’m fine. I… I’m not  _ awful _ to look at, right?”

“No, I promise you’re the exact opposite,” Gabe says, although that’s an understatement. He can see the outlines of each of William’s ribs, so much so he can count each of them. His stomach is as flat as a wall, and the valleys of his collarbones resemble caverns. “You’re hot shit.”

“Good.” William breathes in shakily to steel himself before reaching for the bottom of Gabe’s shirt. “You’re fine with me taking your shirt off too, right?”

Panic surges from the pit of Gabe’s stomach. He’s nowhere near William’s level. It’d be  _ humiliating _ to let him see the stubborn pouch of fat glued to his stomach, the way he has to suck in his stomach for even a glimpse of ribs. His hip bones, while present, are ultimately  _ shadows _ that would disappear if he put on only a couple more pounds. And there’s rolls of fat under his armpits, albeit miniscule, but still, they  _ are _ there. If he were to look up the definition of “failure” in the dictionary, Gabe’s pretty sure he would see a picture of his own torso..

But refusing would be admitting defeat so early on. Gabe can’t do that. And if William trusted Gabe to see him shirtless, he reasons it’s only fair to do the same, even if it’s hardly anything to be proud of.

Gabe hesitates, but just as William’s opening his mouth to say something and starts to get off, Gabe says, “It’s fine. You can take it off.”

William nods, and Gabe sits up, allowing William to gingerly peel his shirt off him in silence. He reaches out, running his finger along Gabe’s collarbone. “I wish I looked like you do,” he whispers longingly, eyes prowling across Gabe’s body with yearning and want.

“Are you kidding?” He  _ has _ to be lying to make Gabe feel better. “I wish I looked like  _ you.” _

“Everyone says that, and I never believe it.”

“Me neither.”

William bows his head to kiss Gabe again, an attempt to infuse heat back into each of them. But it’s still not there, no matter how hard they try, no matter how hard Gabe presses his tongue against William’s with such pressure that William can taste bits of stomach acid that burns in his mouth like acidic pop rocks. It doesn’t help that Gabe has to hold back from touching William’s chest and stomach; he used to be able to kiss and lick anywhere he wanted, he used to be able to make William  _ writhe _ at the slightest touch. It’s an entire third of William’s body that’s off-limits.

Meanwhile, William does have access to that part of Gabe’s body, but even so, he feels the sudden need to be careful. He starts to think things are going somewhere when he leaves Gabe’s lips to swirl his tongue over his nipple and Gabe reacts favorably, moaning and thrusting his hips up, but then William’s hand wanders down Gabe’s ribs and it stops. Gabe falls eerily silent. William looks up and asks, “Did I do something?”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Gabe says, although he sounds short of breath and his eyes are squeezed shut. “Um… just, fuck. Maybe we should stay away from my ribs.” He laughs suddenly. “As if I have any ribs. But you know what I mean.”

“No, I get what you mean.” William lifts his hand away. “Uh… what should we do, then?”

“I mean, I guess we can just skip to the good stuff.”

William looks down and then back up at Gabe. “Neither of us are very hard.”

“That’s fine.” Gabe sits up with a groan, sliding out from under William and then getting on top of him to push him down, reaching for the zipper of his jeans. “I’ll get you turned on, and then you can fuck me, and then I won’t be hungry, and then we’ll be fine.”

William lays back, lifting his hips so Gabe can push his jeans off. “Sounds good.”

Once Gabe’s gotten William’s jeans and then his briefs off, he ducks his head between William’s spread legs, kissing and nipping up his thighs, grabbing whatever’s left of his flat ass. William shudders, and Gabe translates it as pleasure, continuing his teasing. But then William makes a sound, this one strained. Just as Gabe stops to look up, William’s hands fly up to cover his face as he releases a loud, gut-wrenching sob.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, “I’m sorry, I-- I don’t know why, I just… I didn’t think it’d be  _ that _ bad, but my thighs are gross and… and…”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Gabe reassures him. “Dude, your thighs are  _ not _ gross. They’re, like, the size of some people’s  _ arms.  _ You have no idea how many people would kill for your legs. You’re fucking thinspo.”

“I’m not,” William bawls. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t want to ruin this.”

“Don’t worry, you didn’t ruin anything. I know how you feel, but I promise you, whatever your brain is telling you is--”

“Blow me,” William interrupts.

“What?”

“You heard me,” William rasps, sniffling back the snot in his nose.

Gabe nods, and without a sound, sinks his mouth onto William’s cock.

At least he can pride himself on his gag reflex, so there’s that.

  
  
  
  


Even though the hook-up is pretty much the worst disaster of all time, they eventually manage to finish. Gabe’s hunger ebbs away temporarily, but only temporarily; after laying in bed, arms wrapped around William’s tiny waist underneath a blanket so they don’t have to look at each other, the pangs of his stomach return after only ten minutes. But he’s too exhausted to even get up to binge, so oh well.

“Maybe it’ll be better when we’re skinny,” William murmurs.

“I think so,” Gabe agrees, because he wants to believe that it can only go uphill from here.

After a while of that and then helping William to clean up, Gabe puts his clothes back on and stumbles to his room. He flops onto his bed on his back and stares up at the ceiling, causing Nate to glance up from the game he’s playing on his cell phone. “Where were you?”

“William’s room.”

“Ah,” Nate says, needing no further explanation. “I feel like getting room service. Do you want to? I bet you’re hungry after whatever you did with William.”

Gabe rolls over and buries his head in a pillow. “No.”

“But I was looking through the menu, and they have--”

“I don’t  _ care,” _ Gabe interrupts, almost like a growl. He forces himself to sit and stand up. “I’m taking a shower.”

“Suit yourself,” Nate says with a shrug, and then he looks back down at his cell phone to keep playing Tetris.

Gabe ambles into the doorway of the bathroom, but just as he gets a grip on the sliding door to shut it, his knees suddenly become jelly, black fuzzy dots multiplying in his vision. He collapses against the sink with a clatter, causing the paper-wrapped soap bars and tiny complimentary bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo to roll to the floor. He barely keeps himself upright, weakly grabbing the edge of the sink with his thinning fingers and hoping he doesn’t slip away.

At the commotion, Nate peeks into the bathroom and comments, “Wow, you’re fucking drunk.”

“Mhm,” Gabe hums, slowly letting himself drop to the floor because he can’t keep himself up any longer, and if he does, he feels like he’ll pass out. That’s right, he’s drunk. That’s a great excuse for fainting. “Could you make me coffee? That might help.”

“Sure,” Nate says, taking a step into the bathroom. “Let me help you up--”

Gabe waves away his arm and protests, “No, I’m good.”

“So you’re going to stay sitting on the bathroom floor?”

“Only for a minute,” he says, resting his head against the wall. “I need a minute. That’s all. Don’t put any creamer or sugar in the coffee. I want it black.”

“Black? That’s gross.”

“I don’t care, go make it.”

Nate sighs and leaves the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a mug to fill up with tap water. “Are you  _ sure _ you don’t want me to order room service?” he asks. “Because some food might help you sober up--”

“I’m sure.”

“--and I don’t know if I’ve seen you eat at all today.”

Gabe falls silent, and Nate finishes filling the mug with water, turning off the sink as he stares down at his vocalist. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I did,” Gabe said, pressing his head harder against the wall. “I guess just not in front of you.”

“We share a bus,” Nate deadpans. “Look, I don’t know if it’s because you’re forgetting or you’re stressed--”

“I’m not forgetting to eat,” Gabe snaps, “and I’m not stressed either. How much I eat is none of your business. Please, just go make my fucking coffee already.”

Still, Nate persists. “Ryland and Alex told me you guys weighed yourselves a few days ago, and… I don’t know, but there’s no fucking way you’re--”

“Nate!” Gabe interrupts, struggling to his feet and gripping the edge of the bathroom counter. “I didn’t ask to be interrogated. If you want to fucking order room service, go for it! I’m not stopping you! Just make me a coffee,  _ please!” _

“Fine,” Nate huffs, picking up the filled mug. Although conceding for now, his eyes harden on Gabe with glint of determination before he turns around and leaves the bathroom.

  
  
  
  


Nate ends up ordering mac n’ cheese. The fragrance fills the room, clinging onto Gabe’s nose and tempting him. He can’t help but stare at each dripping, cheese-coated noodle on Nate’s fork as he lifts it to his mouth and eats it, licking a stray drop off his lips.  _ How can he do that? Doesn’t he care that the room service menu has no calories at all on it, that he has absolutely no idea what he’s consuming? Why would anyone order a bowl of mac n’ cheese when there’s literally ten different salads on the menu? _

Nate takes notice of Gabe’s staring and asks, “You want some?”

“No thanks,” Gabe says. He turns his eyes back to the TV, crosses his legs, and picks up his cup of watery black coffee from off the nightstand to sip on. It still burns, bitter and sour, like a really bad soup. Nate shamelessly licks his fork and shrugs.

  
  
  
  


Gabe’s weight isn’t brought up for another week until one day Vicky plucks something off the bus floor and holds it up to ask, “Uh… whose is this?”

Gabe glances up from his laptop on which he’s been browsing the forums on (it’s not like he’s stupid, he turned down the screen brightness and nobody is sitting next to him) and finds himself sucking in a breath to see the object in question is a roll of measuring tape. He has no idea how it could have fallen out of where he’s been hiding it underneath his bunk mattress, but there it is, staring him down with its stupidly menacing inches and centimeters.

A collective silence falls over the front of the bus, and then there’s a chorus of, “Not me,” and “I dunno,” before Vicky says, “Well, I guess I’ll just throw it away--”

“Wait!” Gabe slams his laptop shut and shoots up, grabbing the measuring tape out of her hand and thereby incriminating himself by shoving it into his pocket. “It’s mine. Sorry, I forgot I had that.”

Alex, who’s sitting across from him, asks almost jokingly, “Why’d you bring measuring tape on tour?” like he’s waiting for some funny answer. There is no funny answer, unless Gabe’s eating disorder that causes him to constantly compare the width ratio of his arms and thighs for a forum thread could be considered funny. Maybe someday.

“Um… I don’t know,” Gabe says, sinking back into the seat and placing his laptop back onto his lap. “Just in case I need to measure something?”

“The crew has plenty of those, though.”

“Well, yeah, but… I don’t know, maybe it’s good to have one that’s meant for like, measuring myself?” And then Gabe realizes  _ fuck, _ he practically just admitted to measuring himself, and he’s  _ so  _ screwed.

Everyone stares, but then Alex shrugs and says, “I won’t ask,” before turning back to his own laptop. Gabe breathes a sigh of relief, but he doesn’t open his laptop again, just in case.

The thing is, though, even though Gabe’s weight wasn’t specifically brought up that time, it will be  _ during _ that day. This is only the calm before the storm, a sign of things to come.

  
  
  
  


Gabe is prancing around the stage, singing Guilty Pleasure for the crowd of endearing fans and shouting into the microphone, hoarse by now, when all of a sudden, the exhaustion that had lay in wait decides to strike.

But he holds tight to the microphone and keeps going. After all, he did eat a salad earlier when they ate lunch at a nearby restaurant. And he’d avoided eating all the croutons, and only dipped his fork into the little container of dressing instead of pouring it over the salad. But still, that counts. It totally does.

He starts missing notes, the volume and willpower of his voice wavering between normal and concerning. Ryland and Alex and Vicky constantly exchange looks, but continue to play.

Gabe’s head aches, and so does his knees and his hips and arms and  _ everything. _ The lights are bright, and he has to move so much, and he has to sing so much… and how much longer does this all have to go on? There’s no way they just started the set.

He makes it to the end of the song and takes a swig from a water bottle. Ryland asks him something, but he doesn’t hear, and he doesn’t care.

Now, as the riff to the next song starts, Gabe’s head pounds. He remembers he’s supposed to say something witty at this point before he starts singing, but he completely blanks. He just stares out at the crowd, who are murmuring in confusion as the same riff is played over and over and Alex nudges Gabe and has to whisper the line to him. There’ll definitely be rumors he was sick or drunk or high while performing, and Gabe really, really,  _ cannot _ fucking  _ wait. _

Gabe starts singing the next song, purely from whatever the voice version of muscle memory is, although his head confuses the words. He’s completely off. He has to stop himself from singing the chorus five seconds before it starts.

He catches a glimpse of William at the side of the stage, waiting to sing Snakes with him. Although William looks the opposite of pleased. His arms are crossed, and he glares at Gabe, cold and fierce. Gabe doesn’t think he did anything, until words escape his mouth and the microphone starts to slip out of his sweaty fingers.

And then he realizes, just before everything goes black and he collapses to the ground, that he’s fainting on stage, causing an uproar before William could ever have the chance for his own theatrics.

  
  
  
  


“He fainted before  _ me,” _ is the beginning of William’s rant as soon as Ryan picks up his cell phone, connecting him to the three way call with William and Patrick. “I can’t fucking believe it.  _ How  _ does he do it?”

“Wait, hold up,” Ryan says. “Who fainted?” He’s standing near the door of his apartment, waiting for the pizza man. He’s ravenously hungry and has therefore decided it would be appropriate to break his streak of sixteen days without a binge, so he had ordered pizza only minutes before William had called.

“Gabe did!” William says, his pacing more of a storm as he stomps back and forth in his dressing room. “It’s not fair! It should have been  _ me _ first--”

“Then maybe you should have worked harder?” Ryan suggests, with a hint of contempt. “Just a thought. But he is also taller than you, so he does burn more calories.”

“Taller by  _ two inches,” _ William feels the need to point out. “But I swear, I have to have a lower BMI than him, I have to be working harder. I’ve been doing this  _ so _ much longer than him, I know it. He upstaged me! Everyone’s going to be worried about him and not me!”

“Are you really jealous that Gabe fainted before you did?” Patrick asks, leaning back from his laptop and glad to have an excuse to stop watching cooking videos. “Like, think about it. It’s going to be hell for him. People are going to force him to eat, and they’re going to send him to the hospital--”

William stops pacing. “They’re not sending him to the hospital.”

Ryan’s stomach growls, and he asks, “What do you mean?” as he peers through the peephole of his door. Just in case the pizza man comes early.

“He came to when everyone was trying to drag away,” William explains. “He got up and was able to walk away just fine. He convinced everyone it was low blood sugar, ate a cookie, and went back on stage to finish the set. I still sang fucking  _ Snakes _ with him. Nobody’s even making it as big of a deal as they should be! If it had been me,  _ I _ would--”

“So he’s okay?” Patrick asks.

“Yeah, I think so? I don’t know, I haven’t gotten a chance to talk with him--”

“Can’t you just stop complaining and be inspired?” Ryan says. “Just fucking accept it. If he fainted, he’s probably doing better than you. If you want to faint on stage, you need to work harder. You need to  _ prove _ yourself if you want attention, too.”

“But the hell am I supposed to--”

“Fast,” Ryan says. “You can handle it. You don’t need food.”

“I’m on tour, I can’t do it.”

“At least try to do it for twenty-four hours. You can handle twenty-four hours, right?”

William hesitates. “I guess so--”

The door to William’s dressing room door swings open, and he rushes to take his cell phone away from his ear, fumbling with it in his grasp and finally managing to snap it shut when the rest of his bandmates come walking into the room. He puts on his facade of concern and asks, “Any updates on Gabe?”

“Surprisingly well?” Carden says with confusion, flopping down onto the couch but not before grabbing a handful of potato chips from the snack table William never dares to touch. Before cramming the chips in his mouth, he comments, “Am I the only one who doesn’t believe him?” And then he shoves the potato chips into his mouth, biting down on them with a loud  _ crunch _ that makes William wince.

“I don’t either,” Chizzy says. “Low blood sugar? What kind of fucking excuse is that? He’s not a diabetic.”

“It can happen,” William says, crossing his arms. He can fit the cell phone in his hand in the crevice of his hollow armpit; good. “Maybe… he just wasn’t eating properly or something.”

“Yeah,” Carden states, muffled by his chewing. “He’s not.”

William skeptically scoffs. “And how would you know that?”

Carden swallows and then reaches for, rather than just a handful, the entire potato chip bag. The intoxicating smell of greasy potatoes wafts to William’s nose, and he has to turn away. “Alex told me.” He holds out the potato chip bag. “You guys want any? I’m probably gonna eat the rest.”

“I will,” Sisky, taking a couple chips, and so does Butcher. All William can smell is fucking potato chips.

“Anyways, Alex told me that the whole band has pretty much noticed he doesn’t eat. They think it’s stress or depression or something?” Carden pops a chip into his mouth. The crunch is so loud in William’s ears, it’s deafening. “But I think that’s bullshit.”

“That’s absurd, I know he eats,” William says. “We’re on tour, he needs the energy.”

“Dude,” Butcher says, “Once I walked into his dressing room while he was eating pizza, and then he just froze when he saw me and then threw it out.”

“The same thing happened to me!” Sisky exclaims. “Except he said he was full and said I could have the rest of his sandwich. Which he had only eaten a  _ bite _ of.”

William has to hold back from snorting. “Really?” Is Gabe really  _ that _ bad at hiding his eating disorder? Not that William wouldn’t do the same, but he knows he would personally be at least a little more covert.

“Yeah, I don’t know what’s up with him,” Sisky says. “Probably some weird diet thing he’s doing. He does that kind of shit, right?”

“Last I heard, he only ate applesauce for three days,” Carden says.

“Who told you that?” William demands

“Pete.”

“As if any of that is his business.”

“But only eating applesauce for three days is so  _ weird.” _

“Well, that was a while ago. Gabe knows better now.”

“Wait, so you knew about it?” Carden asks, digging into the chip bag again. The rustle makes William bristle.

“Not much,” William hastens to say, trying to seem as casual as possible and not turn around to look at Carden’s chips. “He just mentioned it once. He’s learned since then not to do weird shit.”

“I don’t think he has,” Chizzy says.

“Well, I guess we’ll see whatever’s going on with him soon,” Carden says with a shrug, snapping a potato chip in half between his teeth. “I heard they’re gonna have an intervention with him tonight.”

“An intervention?” Although it’s not for him, panic rises in William’s stomach. That could’ve easily been him. “Like, a  _ real _ intervention?”

“I think that’s what they meant when they said the word ‘intervention,’ yeah.” Carden reaches into the potato chip bag again, and that’s when William snaps.

“Holy shit,” William snarls, “Could you just  _ stop _ eating potato chips for  _ one  _ second?”

Carden, taken aback, slowly extends the bag to him. “Do you want--”

William slaps the bag out of his hands and flees out of the room, glancing down at his fat thighs as he runs and decides that while he will do his best to help Gabe out of this situation, he’s still going to end up skinnier than him, one way or another.

  
  
  
  


“I can’t believe he just hung up on us like that,” Ryan tells Patrick over the phone, as he peeks out the peephole of his door again. “I can’t wait until his tour is done and we’re all home for the holidays. It’s been so long since we’ve all gotten to talk properly.”

“Right. Although when we’re talking during the holidays, it’s usually because we’re all having breakdowns over sugar cookies.”

“That won’t be me this year. I’m not going anywhere for Christmas.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Oh, she’s pissed I won’t hang out with her family, but I’d rather get skinnier than her,” Ryan says, leaving it at that. Almost snarkily, he asks, “So, what are your plans? Are you going to your parents’ house to binge and purge everything?”

“Probably,” Patrick says disappointedly. Now he’s in his kitchen, staring at the open fridge and trying to decide whether it would be worth it to eat a bagel with low fat cream cheese for dinner, or to just eat the entire chocolate cake he impulse bought at the grocery store yesterday. “But I  _ am _ going to actually try this time. I’m going to tell everyone I’m going on a diet--”

“Like usual.”

“--and then everyone will leave me alone when I don’t eat much. So it’ll be fine.”

“But your stomach has to be stretched to hell after so much binging. That sounds hard.”

“I can restrict,” Patrick says, and out of pure spite, finally decides to take out the bag of bagels and tub of low fat cream cheese. “I’m eating just a bagel for dinner.”

“Do you even know how many calories are in a bagel?”

“The nutrition label is right there, so yes, Ryan, I know.” Patrick slams the fridge door shut and dumps the food onto the counter, balancing his cell phone between his head and shoulder as he pries a bagel apart. “I’m only going to eat half of one. So, what are  _ your _ dinner plans? Are you going to eat some ice cubes and lettuce? Sounds absolutely delightful.”

“No,” Ryan spits. “I ordered a pizza.” Rather than admit to the fact he’s about to binge, he lies, “I’m only going to eat one piece and that’s it. Maybe I’ll chew and spit a few more pieces, because I have  _ control, _ and then I’ll throw it out and go to the gym.”

“I don’t doubt you,” Patrick says, taking the cell phone off his shoulder as he plugs in the toaster and pops his bagel half into it. “Anyways, what do you think Gabe will do now that--”

A lovely sound stops Ryan from listening: the ring of the doorbell and a rap on the door. “Sorry, pizza’s here, gotta go!” he rushes to say, before tearing the cell phone from his ear and abruptly snapping it shut.

When he opens the door, the pizza man hands him a receipt to sign. As Ryan scrawls his signature on it, the pizza man asks, “Hey, aren’t you from that one band? Panic! At The Discotheque or whatever?”

“No,” Ryan says straightforwardly, handing the receipt back and taking his medium cheese-and-pepperoni pizza. Not because he doesn’t want his address leaked, but because nobody needs to know that Ryan Ross actually  _ eats.  _ He digs a crumpled five out of his pocket and almost throws it at the pizza man, closing the door in a hurry as he says, “Thank you, have a nice night!”

  
  
  
  


Gabe sits almost perched on the dressing room couch, a warm styrofoam cup of hot black coffee warming his palms as he stares at some cheap painting on the wall and tries to think of how many calories that cookie could have been. It was chocolate chip, maybe about three or four inches in diameter? And it tasted  _ really _ good, so there had to be a lot of calories. Maybe 120, if he’s being generous. Or 150, that might be more accurate. Or, although just going for 200 would probably be an overestimation, it might be the safest bet.

He’s broken out of his thoughts by Ryland waving a snack-sized bag of veggie straws in front of him before dropping it on his lap. “This is for you.”

“Oh.” Gabe looks down at the bag and takes a sip of his coffee, resisting the urge to pick it up and immediately flip it over to read the calories. “Thanks.”

Ryland sits down on a plastic chair across from him and gives him an expectant stare. Gabe doesn’t look behind him, but he knows the rest of Cobra is probably standing behind the couch as well. He realizes they’re waiting for him to eat the veggie straws, but rather than give in, he plays dumb and takes another light sip of coffee. The sourness probably tastes better than veggie straws could ever hope to do, anyways.

“So?” Ryland eventually asks.

Gabe glances up from his coffee. “So what?”

“Are you going to eat the veggie straws?”

After the cookie, there’s no fucking way Gabe will eat the veggie straws. He’d rather die, thank you very much. Every bite would bring the sensation of building fat and anxiety rather than satisfaction. “I’m good, so I think I’ll save them for later.”

Nate sits down on the empty plastic chair next to Ryland and says, “Man, you passed out on stage tonight.”

“And I had a cookie and I was fine.” Gabe shrugs. His head is no longer swimming; although the fact he ate a cookie isn’t optimal, he’s at least a little proud his body has learned to not need as much to function. One step closer to being skinny. “Really, I’m alright.” He tries to crack a reassuring smile. “You guys don’t need to worry.”

A collective silence falls over the room as the rest of his bandmates pause and all look at each other, trying to decide what to say next. Just as Ryland is opening his mouth, William bursts through the dressing room door and exclaims, “Gabe, I’ve been looking for you! I gotta talk to you about something--”

“We’re kinda in the middle of something,” Vicky says. “Can you come back later?”

“No, my band’s set is in an hour.” William struts over to the couch, grabbing Gabe by his hand and pulling him up. The bag of veggie straws falls off his lap. “It’s important. Thanks for letting me borrow him, I promise I’ll be quick!”

He tugs Gabe into the hallway and next to a pile of amp cases. “Thanks,” Gabe says, lifting his styrofoam cup to his lips, “but they’re going to want to talk to me at some point about this shit. It’s inevitable. This morning they found my measuring tape, and now I’ve just fainted on stage.”

“No, don’t give up now,” William pleads. “I  _ need _ you.”

“I never said I was giving up,” Gabe says. “I mean, I’m an adult, what can they do about it?”

“They can Baker Act you.”

Gabe chuckles and downs the rest of his coffee, wiping the rest off his lips. “I’m  _ nowhere _ close to getting involuntarily forced to go inpatient. But thanks for your concern.”

“But we still need to come up with a good excuse,” William says. “The minute someone suspects you have an eating disorder and says it out loud, things will add up. It’s fun worrying people, but when they can go to extremes to keep you from losing weight, it’s not fun anymore. You’re still not at that point where you want to recover, right?”

Gabe nods slowly, considering William’s words. “I don’t want to recover,” he says softly, his eyes falling to the ground mournfully before darting back up to William. “Whatever your plan is, tell me. I’ll do anything to avoid getting Baker Acted.”

William smirks, glad Gabe is hearing his reasoning. “Tell them you’ve been stressed. That’s what most people are seeming to think, anyways. Eat anything they force on you over the next few days and purge it. When they think you’re eating again, you can start lowering your intake again and save all your calories for eating in front of people so you have witnesses. That’s what I told Ryan to do on the Truckstops & Statelines tour, and it worked. Trust me.”

  
  
  
  


William’s plan works. For several days, Gabe eats everything thrown at him. As soon as he gets back into the dressing room, he rips open the bag of veggie straws without complaint and then takes a couple more cookies from the snack table, as well as two salty handfuls of chips. They all end up in the toilet later when Gabe has a moment to himself.

“I’ve just been stressed lately, you know how it is,” is what he tells the rest of his band, and he tells them all his current business ventures, none of which are currently that stressful but would certainly sound like it to an outsider, especially when topped off with being on tour. And he keeps eating, and they all believe it.

Nobody asks again for a while if he’s okay. They’ll all get used to it, because he’s Gabe Saporta and that’s just how he is, even when it’s clearly dangerous.

  
  
  
  


On December 31st, 2007, Gabe is trying to burn off all the latkes and sufganiyot he consumed earlier that month during Chanukkah when Pete calls to inquire, “Do you have any New Year’s plans?”

Gabe jabs the button on the treadmill to slow his speed, needing a few seconds to gulp in breath before he answers, “Not really.”

“Do you want to come over?” Pete asks. “I don’t really have any plans, either.”

And that’s how he ends up in Pete’s apartment, just Gabe and him, sitting on the couch in front of the TV, waiting for the ball to drop a few miles away in Times Square so they can sip their overpriced champagne and call it a night.

“Do you have any resolutions?” Pete asks, reclining further into the plushy couch.

_ Besides losing weight? _ Gabe almost wants to say sarcastically, but since finding out from William that Pete hadn’t really kept his short-lived applesauce mono much of a secret, he knows better. “Not really. You?”

“I don’t know,” Pete says. “Maybe I’ll get a haircut soon.”

“You won’t,” Gabe says, playing with one of the pieces of Pete’s emo fringe before his hand is lightly swatted away. “You’ve had it for what? Four years now?”

“Yeah, and I should get rid of it before I’m an old man.”

Gabe playfully scoffs. “You’re the same age as me. Are you calling me old?”

“Yeah,” Pete says, grabbing Gabe’s thin wrist. “You have the body of a boney old woman.”

“Shut up,” Gabe says, lifting up his shirt to show off his flat stomach. “Does  _ this _ look like the body of a boney old woman?”

Pete raises an eyebrow. “I dunno,” he says, unconsciously licking his lips as he takes in Gabe’s figure, which for now, is still more lean than frail. When he realizes he’s been staring too long, he pokes Gabe in the ribs and says, “You’re starting to have more of a William body, actually.”

Pride rises up in Gabe’s stomach as he drops his shirt. “What constitutes a William body?”

“You know,” Pete says, not elaborating. “Not that I’m complaining, though. It looks good on you.”

“Really?” Gabe asks, in disbelief, expecting it to be another joke or a result of the wine they had drank earlier.

Instead, Pete meets his eyes and says sincerely, “Really.”

On the TV, the countdown to New Year’s begins, the crowd shouting, _ “Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…” _

After a brief glance at the TV, Pete looks back at Gabe, a glint in his eyes as he wonders, “So, do you have anyone to kiss at midnight?”

A smirk crosses Gabe’s lips. “No, why?”

“I don’t either.”

The TV chants,  _ “...Five, four, three, two, one! Happy New Year!” _

Suddenly, it’s 2008, and the celebratory cheers of the TV fade into a dull roar as Gabe and Pete surge forward, leaving their champagne glasses completely untouched on the coffee table. They press their lips together, the taste of Gabe’s tongue remarkably acidic, but Pete doesn’t say anything, doesn’t suspect anything. Instead, his hand slinks underneath Gabe’s shirt, feeling over the sharp points of his hip bones, the way his skin is stretched taut over what should be a stomach, the noticeable valleys and crevices that make up his ribs and spine.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Pete whispers into his ear, as he pushes Gabe down onto his bed after they’ve moved from the couch to here. He kisses down Gabe’s collarbone, licks up his jawline. Gabe’s glad he’s lost a couple pounds since last time; this is much easier than with William, with someone who couldn’t give a shit about his own weight. For a moment, Gabe can sink into the elation of how easily Pete fits between his thin thighs, how easily Pete’s grasp can wrap around Gabe’s wasting wrists, and think of nothing else.

Starting off the new year at 143.6 lbs, just skinny enough to earn Pete’s gaze, isn’t a bad way to begin 2008 at all.


	2. 2008

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2008 is finally here!! It's a very, very long chapter, so a lot of shit goes down and I added some tags to the fic, so if you could be triggered in any way, you should probably look, although those don't take place until the very end of the chapter and don't yet go into much detail. This is also the year I had the previous chanukkah wentzporta fic take place, so there's also a gap in the chapter where that takes place and continues from afterward.
> 
> I did my best to make this as "accurate" as possible for the fun 2008 vibes, but as we've established, I was playing webkinz in 2008 and this fic is also widely creative with everyone having a fucking eating disorder lol. The only thing that bugs me is that the TAI MTV NYE performance was originally recorded on Dec 15th, 2008, which is before when I had William talking about trying to lose weight for it, but hopefully tiny inaccuracies like that are not a huge deal lol because who even fucking remembers 2008 anyways.
> 
> Okay, enjoy the fic! Get comfy, because 2008 is hella mega long ;)
> 
> **Hotlines and resources for eating disorders: https://edresources.carrd.co/**

**2008**

  
  


“So, you and Pete, huh?” Patrick asks. He’s in NYC to work on some FOB music, a couple ideas for songs that probably won’t come to fruition until after the eventual hiatus, and so he and Gabe had decided to get lunch together at a cafe after finally getting Pete off their backs for a minute so they could discuss average Decaydance Weightloss Competition business. “How’d that happen?”

“I don’t know, I guess that’s the magic of being skinny,” Gabe says slyly, sipping his black coffee while briefly glancing down at Patrick’s iced latte with whole milk and sugar and an entire slice of banana bread. The truth is that both Gabe and Pete had woken up in the afternoon of January 1st, decided being curled up in each other’s arms wasn’t too bad of an arrangement, fucked again, and started dating, because why not? “I’m excited about it. Things are going great so far.”

“Right,” Patrick says. He absentmindedly rips a piece of banana bread off but not doesn’t bother to lift it to his mouth, instead squishing it between his fingers. Gabe has his suspicions Patrick could be a little jealous, which is confirmed when a few moments later, Patrick asks, “But aren’t you worried you won’t compare to his exes?”

Gabe swallows another sip of black coffee and puts it down. “What do you mean by that?”

“Y’know.” Patrick shrugs, still molding the piece of banana bread as he speaks. “I don’t think it’d be fair to bring up all his past girlfriends, since there’s obviously some differences between you and them… but what about Mikey? He’s _definitely_ skinnier than you, both during Warped and now.”

“I mean, yeah,” Gabe says. “But… that was only for a summer, right? He wouldn’t remember how skinny Mikey was out of everything.”

“Still, you never know,” Patrick says. “You might want to step up your game.”

“I’m already doing fine as is,” Gabe says, subtly pointing to Patrick’s plate of banana bread. “You, on the other hand…”

“I know, I can’t talk.” He’d love to tell Gabe that, in fact, he’s lost two pounds so far since the New Year began, but there’s no way it’s anything in comparison to whatever Gabe has lost. He’s seen the photos from the Sleeping with Giants tour, wherein Gabe was already on the skinnier side, but now? He’s a complete contrast, an utter skeleton. Thinking about it is so unbelievable it’s almost nauseating, stomach churning with humiliation. The meager lump of squished banana bread drops from Patrick’s fingers to the plate as he mumbles, “If anyone’s losing, it’s me.”

“What? No, don’t say that. There’s no such thing as losing. This isn’t a _real_ competition.”

Patrick tears another piece of banana bread off and pops this one into his mouth, chewing as he starts to ramble, “But if someone was losing, it would be me. I weigh the most. Compared to you all, I haven’t lost anything. I keep binging and purging and saying I’ll restrict and then just…” He grabs his napkin off the table to spit the chewed banana bread into. “I don’t know. Ryan’s right. I know he says I’m weak behind my back and he’s right.”

“You’re not weak,” Gabe promises, hesitating before he admits, “I purge too.”

Patrick’s eyes light up with hope before they dim again. “But you’re actually good at restricting, so it doesn’t count. If you got diagnosed, you’d be an anorexic with binge/purge subtype. I’d just be a plain fucking bulimic.”

“Patrick,” Gabe says, clearing his throat. “At this point, are you doing this because you want to lose weight, or because you want to prove Ryan wrong? Because if you keep going with the mindset that bulimics are ‘weak,’ you’re never going to accomplish anything.”

“Yeah…” Patrick nods. “You’re right. I can do this. I just… I just need to forget about what Ryan says and focus on myself.”

“You can do this,” Gabe tells him. “Trust me, if you lose weight… _imagine._ No offense, but you’d be rivalling Pete once you’re not known anymore as the fat singer of Fall Out Boy.”

“Yeah,” Patrick said, a smile sickly brightening his features. “It’s not fair Pete gets all the shirtless magazine posters. I can be _more.”_

He takes Gabe’s advice to heart. And just as things are starting to go his way, just as people are starting to notice he’s shed a few pounds, two months later, Patrick passes out cold backstage in London after forty-six hours straight of fasting.

  
  
  
  


Pete hands Patrick an overpriced plastic-wrapped sandwich he bought from one of the shops at London-Heathrow and sits down next to him where they’re waiting for their flight in the terminal.

“You either have to eat that sandwich,” Pete says, pointing to it, “or tell me what’s up.”

Patrick unwraps the sandwich and pokes it. Usually he isn’t picky, but the bread is moist and thin, and there’s some brown slimy spread on the inside. “What even is this?”

“Cheese and pickle.”

“That doesn’t even look like pickle.” Patrick wraps the sandwich back up. “You bought me the worst sandwich on purpose.”

“That was all they had!”

Patrick frowns and looks over to Joe and Andy for help, who are sitting across from them. Andy ignores him and continues reading his book, while Joe gives him a shrug before going back to fiddling with his IPod.

“Patrick,” Pete says gently. “I’m just worried about you.”

Patrick glances down at the sandwich, and for the first time, thinks, _Fuck, what am I_ doing _to myself?_ He swallows the growing lump in his throat, but that only causes the taste of acid to resurface on his tongue. His chest tightens in response.

“I’ll tell you,” Patrick promises, and he finds himself shocked by the words that come off his tongue. “But only when we’re on the plane, when everyone’s sleeping and we’re sure nobody has recognized us.”

  
  
  
  


Gabe is laying on his back on the couch and staring at the time on his cell phone, trying to calculate the hours until Pete’s flight will land when he’s interrupted by a call from Ryan, who tells him to hold on until he adds William to the call. After William answers, Ryan asks, “Did you guys hear about Patrick?”

“No…” Gabe says slowly.

Cautiously, William asks, “What happened?”

“Haven’t you guys been online at all?” Ryan asks. “It’s all over Livejournal and shit. There’s rumors Patrick fainted backstage after the show in London.”

“Oh fuck,” William mutters under his breath. Gabe sits up, staring out his window and realizing the nausea rising in his stomach is not pity, but guilt. This was his fault; he’d been the one to motivate Patrick to push this far.

“I don’t understand how,” Ryan continues. “Bulimics don’t faint, do they?”

“Considering bulimics are also capable of being severely malnourished,” William says, “it’s possible, yeah.”

“He was restricting,” Gabe admits softly, wrapping one of the white strings of his purple hoodie around his finger. “Fuck, this is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, he’s tried restricting before,” William reassures. “He’s just never been this successful, that’s all.”

“I think it’s good,” Ryan adds.

“Exactly _how_ do you think this is good?” Gabe demands. “I fainted last year, and now that Patrick has fainted, rumors are going to go around--”

“He’s fat, no fucking rumors are going to start about _him,”_ Ryan explains. “Like, this isn’t me being mean, but nobody thinks someone like Patrick would have an eating disorder. That’s just the cold truth. Anyways, I think it’s good because this means he’s actually working hard for once. He wasn’t losing anything. I think we should be proud of him when he comes back instead of acting all worried. He’d want us to encourage him.”

After a brief pause, William says, “You’re right. If he wants to get anywhere, we have to tell him he’s doing something right for once. Gabe, you haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, it’s the opposite. Hell, Patrick will probably be _thanking_ you. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”

  
  
  
  


“Can I get you both something to drink?” the flight attendant asks with a British lilt, rolling the drink cart to a stop beside the row where Pete and Patrick are seated.

“Diet Coke,” Patrick says. He can feel Pete’s disapproval radiating off him and burning through his skin, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like he deserves regular pop, anyway.

“And you, sir?” the flight attendant asks Pete, as she cracks open a can of Diet Coke and pours it into a plastic cup.

“I’ll just have a water,” Pete says. The flight attendant gives a smile and a nod, and Patrick can’t help but notice how sharp her jaw is, as well as her narrow wrists as she hands Patrick his drink. Even on an international flight, Patrick can’t escape thinspo.

As soon as the flight attendant has disappeared and Patrick and Pete are left with their drinks, Pete cranes his head to turn and glance at Andy and Joe in the seats behind them, as well as the few crew members who had flown along who are across the aisle. Their seat lights have been switched off, and all of them are reclining back, either with their eyes closed or a sleep mask over their eyes in an attempt to sleep. The plane is dim, lit by the lights of the few who are awake to read or watch movies, perfect for secrecy.

Unfortunately for Patrick, this means that Pete’s going to ask him about why he fainted at the show. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and sips his Diet Coke _v e r y_ slowly.

“Patrick,” Pete whispers. Patrick doesn’t look up from the fizzy brown of his Diet Coke. “Can you please tell me what’s going on? I promise, whatever it is, I’ll do my best to understand and help you. You just… you dropped like a fucking rock--”

“I hadn’t eaten,” Patrick says abruptly. “For… at least two or three days, I don’t know, I wasn’t really keeping track. I hadn’t eaten since we’d been in the States.”

“Oh.” Pete inhales. “So… what happened? Why would you--”

Patrick bites down on hard on his bottom lip until he can almost taste blood, straining to hold back an onslaught of tears as he shuts his eyes tight and murmurs, “I just wanted to be… _skinny.”_

“Patrick…”

He takes a second to breathe and then chokes out, “I know.” A hot tear slides down his cheek. “It’s stupid. I’ve been trying to be skinny for years now. The kind of frontman this band deserves. But I could never do it right. It’s all just a cycle of binging and throwing up and telling myself I’ll do better tomorrow, and repeat. And I _was_ starting to do it right this time, I was finally able to convince myself the hunger would be worth it… now I just feel like a piece of shit for fainting in front of you guys and worrying everyone.”

“Patrick, I… I’m so sorry.”

Patrick opens his eyes, finally bearing to look at Pete through his bleary vision and see his eyebrows tilted sympathetically, his pupils dilated in shock, his grip tightening on the seat armrest dividing them.

“I feel awful, I mean… I really should’ve noticed it before,” Pete continues under his breath. “I’ve heard you throwing up like, two times… but then you said you were fine, and I just let it go and I should’ve realized--”

“It’s not your fault. I wanted to hide it for as long as possible and…” He sniffles, wiping at his nose with one of the cheap napkins on his seat tray. “And here I am, I guess. I’m a fucking disappointment. I’m sorry, Pete, I… I know I shouldn’t be doing this to myself but…” He remembers Ryan’s words. _Weak._ “I just can’t stop.”

“You only can’t stop because you don’t know what your life will be without it,” Pete says. “I mean, that’s what I thought a couple years ago with my own shit. But it _can_ be better. I don’t want to see you hurt yourself anymore, and nobody else wants you to, either. This isn’t a healthy way for you to lose weight or see yourself.”

Patrick nods, biting down on his bottom lip again and resting his head against the back of his seat. “I’m sorry,” he croaks out.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Pete assures him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. He’s gentle and doesn’t squeeze, which Patrick is thankful for, because he’d rather not feel how much fat Pete could grip in his hand right now from his arms alone. “It isn’t your fault. When we get back, if I’m there for you and help you do some research into therapists… do you think you could try to recover?”

 _Recovery._ The word hits Patrick like a load of bricks.

Recovery would be gaining. Recovery would be losing. Recovery would be failure.

He can already see it like a vision, so clear it has to be foreboding: Gabe avoiding his eyes, William’s scowl, Ryan’s menacing and victorious grin..

But when Patrick forces his aching eyes open, he sees Pete, eyes squinted and on the brink of tears as well. Through the cracks of the seats, he can see Joe’s foot and Andy’s sleeping mask. In his head, he can see his parents, his siblings, all the family and friends and everyone he would potentially be leaving behind by continuing on this treacherous path. It’s bad and he knows it.

And Ryan, William, and Gabe, they’re all on the same path to doom too. They’re all fucked. This entire thing, when Patrick realizes the scale of it, is so massively _fucked_ he can’t believe it’s reality and not a B-rated movie plot.

He could spill the entire secret right now and betray the unspoken rule of the unspoken Decaydance Weightloss Competition. He would lose three of his best friends and save their lives at the same time.

But it’s too risky. Patrick knows he doesn’t have the guts to tell even Pete about something like that, especially not the fact his new boyfriend is an active participant who had egged Patrick on to this point.

“I could try,” Patrick promises. Another tear traces his cheek. “I… I’ll try my best.”

Pete smiles, and Patrick forces a smile and takes a sip of Diet Coke. He feels fatter already.

  
  
  
  


“I miss Patrick,” Gabe says, simultaneously Skyping with William and Ryan in one window, scrolling through an ED forum in another as he sits cross-legged on Pete’s couch. He’s spent so much time at Pete’s apartment lately that he’s unofficially moved in, which is unsurprising enough that neither William and Ryan have bothered to comment on besides warnings to be careful.

“It’s only been two weeks since he quit.” William is resting the side of his head on the surface of his desk, framed by empty water bottles and numerous brand name diet soda cans. “It’s not like you’re never going to see him again, chill. Anyways, we need to think of how we can lose weight before Warped. Do you have any ideas?”

“Warped Tour is four months away,” Gabe says, as he scrolls through a forum thread asking about favorite safe foods. He clicks on the comment box and types, _black coffee, protein bars, rice cakes, celery :)_ and feels like a real anorexic for once as he presses post.

“I know it’s four months away, but it’ll be here before we know it. I want to lose at least ten pounds before Fast Times comes out.” William pushes a piece of hair out of his eyes. “Someone commented on the last TAITV episode that Butcher’s the skinniest person in the band, which is stupid. _I_ clearly am, and I need to prove it.”

Ryan returns to his laptop, dumps a load of plastic-wrapped snack cakes and chocolates onto the keyboard, and flops onto his desk chair. “Do my arms look fat?” he asks, holding it up in the air. It’s literally a fucking stick. William rolls his eyes.

“Unless you have any good ideas on how to lose weight before Warped, I don’t want to hear a word from you.”

“Fine,” Ryan says, peeling open the wrapper of one of the snack cakes. “I’m not binging, by the way.”

“Nobody asked,” Gabe says, clicking on another thread and reading through recommendations for cheap multivitamins even though he has no need for any. He glances at Ryan’s camera. “That does look an awfully large amount of food, though.”

“It’s not,” Ryan says, and he shoves the snack cake into his mouth, tearing it in half. “At least I don’t purge. Patrick’s going to have the easiest time of his life recovering because he’s--”

The front door to Pete’s apartment rattles as it’s unlocked, and Gabe rushes to hit mute and slam his laptop shut just as Pete walks in. Patrick is behind him, rolling in a suitcase.

“Hey guys,” Gabe says, smiling as normally as possible. “Pete, you never said Patrick would be... visiting.”

Patrick shoots him an apologetic glance as Pete grimaces and says, “Yeah, uh… I know, it’s really last minute.” He whispers to Patrick, “Is it okay if I tell him? He’s around here pretty much all the time, so…”

“Knock yourself out,” Patrick says.

“Right. Patrick, you can go put your stuff in the guest room while I talk to Gabe for a moment.”

Patrick nods curtly, his suitcase noisily rolling across the hardwood floor before he disappears into the hallway. Pete takes a seat next to Gabe, and crosses his fingers as he explains, “Look… I know it’s really sudden and considering you’ve like, almost moved in by this point, I should’ve told you sooner, but Patrick’s going to be staying with me for a couple of weeks. He can’t really stay by himself in Chicago right now.”

“Does he have a stalker or something?” Gabe asks innocently, and Pete solemnly shakes his head.

“He has an eating disorder,” Pete confides. He pauses, and Gabe doesn’t realize he’s waiting for a reaction until he repeats, “Patrick’s a bulimic,” and _then_ Gabe processes that he’s supposed to not know this and thus be shocked.

“Wow,” Gabe mutters under his breath, looking down and pretending to memorize the zig-zagging red pattern of the carpet.

“I shouldn’t tell you much, since that’s his business and not mine, but it’s been going on for a few years now and it’s serious. He had a consultation with an eating disorder specialist the other day and she pretty much said he was a lost cause if he didn’t have anyone to keep him on track for recovery, so… I offered to let Patrick move in so I could keep him accountable and help him out if anything happens.”

“Ah,” Gabe says, still memorizing the carpet. “That… makes sense?”

“It’s going to be tough for him at first,” Pete says. “So… you shouldn’t make any comments about what he’s eating or his weight. And you might not want to flaunt your body around him, either.”

“Flaunt my body?” Gabe glances up from the carpet, narrowing his eye at Pete in confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know…” Pete says, eyes flickering down to Gabe’s deep collarbones. “You’re just naturally like… _really_ skinny. And that’s not your fault, it’s just not the sort of thing Patrick needs to see a lot right now when he’s trying to get better?”

Gabe sucks in a breath. “Uh-huh.”

“So when you’re around here, you probably should try to not like… make a big deal out of the fact you’re skinny. Probably not the best thing to talk about. And you don’t have to, but if you could wear sweatshirts and looser clothes more often than not, that might help too. Like…” Pete points to Gabe’s wrist, and Gabe pulls the sleeve of his hoodie down over it. _“That’s_ not the kinda shit Patrick would want to be reminded of, y’know? You understand, right?”

“Yeah,” Gabe softly chokes out. _He’s ashamed of me._ “I understand where you’re coming from. I get it. It is only a couple weeks, I guess.”

“I’m so glad you understand.” Pete grins, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “By the way, we don’t have to, but maybe you should switch to regular Coke for the time being, since seeing all the diet stuff in the fridge could be--”

“No!” Gabe blurts out in a panic, causing Pete to shoot him a weird look. “I mean… uh, no. Maybe it would be good to keep around for the time being, since it would be like a… safe… food… for Patrick? He likes that stuff, right? It might be better to have that stuff for now, until he’s ready to drink liquids that are… higher in… calories.”

Pete considers it, and then nods. “Yeah, I’ll ask him about it.” He stands up. “I’m going to go see if he needs any help unpacking. Thank you _so_ much for understanding, Gabe, you’re the best. And maybe you should…” He makes a zipping motion with his hand, and Gabe gives a weak smile and nod. Pete turns and walks away as Gabe zips up his purple hoodie with trembling, thin fingers. At this point, he might as well wear _gloves_ so he doesn’t accidentally trigger Patrick by merely existing.

 _Or this an excuse,_ Gabe’s mind supplies. _Pete thinks you’re disgusting. He doesn’t actually think you’re skinny. You should lose more weight. You have to._

  
  
  
  


“Hey,” Patrick says from behind, causing Gabe to jump and slam his laptop shut for the second time that day. It’s now evening, the darkness beginning to dim the city. Pete has disappeared to pick up takeout, leaving the two alone in the apartment. “Were you looking at…”

“Proana forums?” Gabe sighs, twisting around on the couch to face him. “Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have, not when you’re here, but…”

“No, no, it’s fine, I get it,” Patrick says kindly, sinking down onto the perpendicular couch. “You can keep browsing, I won’t be able to see from here. I just wanna watch some TV.”

“Cool.” Gabe cautiously opens his laptop back up.

Patrick grabs the remote off the coffee table. As he channel-surfs, he turns to Gabe and asks jovially, “So, how’s the Decaydance Weightloss Competition been going since I left?”

“Same as always,” Gabe remarks, declining to comment on what exactly Ryan has said about Patrick since his departure. “Ryan binged on Skype earlier and said it wasn’t a binge. William wants to lose weight before his new record comes out and Warped Tour. Pete told me I shouldn’t ‘flaunt’ my body around you. Same old.”

“Wait, Pete _said_ that?” Patrick’s eyes widen in horror. “Ugh, I’m so sorry. I don’t think he meant it to hurt you, but… man, that has to be triggering.”

“Really triggering,” Gabe says, lifting his foot onto the coffee table to show off that he’s now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants rather than his usual choice of black skinny jeans. “But I’m used to hiding being triggered from him, so I’m sure it’ll be just fine. You’re only here a few weeks, after all.”

“That’s true,” Patrick says with a nod. “Pete… he’s trying his best, but he doesn’t get it. I feel like I can’t purge at _all_ when I’m around him because I can’t disappoint him, but… I can’t just suddenly stop, you know? The urge is still there. I’ve eaten so much today and…” He starts bouncing his leg in anxiety before forcing himself to stop. “Thinking about it is hard. Really hard.”

“If you want to purge right now before Pete gets back with food… I won’t tell.”

“Wait, really?”

“I know how it is,” Gabe says. “Just go do it if you want to that badly. If you crack open the window while you do it and spray some of that lavender-scented stuff on the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet afterward, the vomit smell will be gone in minutes. I have mints, too, if you need them for your breath.”

Patrick turns off the TV, slamming the remote down onto the coffee table in elation. “Thank you! And you promise you’re not going to tell Pete, right? I still want to try to recover, I just… it’s _only_ this one time and then I’ll stop.”

“I promise. Just don’t tell Pete about any of the shit I do.”

“Got it!” Patrick beams as he runs off to the bathroom.

A minute later, as Gabe is still perusing the forums, he’s startled by the loud coughing and retching through the thin walls. He grabs the remote, turns the TV back on, and turns up the volume until he can’t hear Patrick anymore.

  
  
  
  


A few minutes after Patrick leaves the bathroom smelling more of acrid chemicals than lavender or vomit, Pete returns with the takeout and sets the plastic bag down on the table to hand out the food to each of them. Pete has vegetable fried rice and has no problem dumping it all onto a large plate to devour. Patrick has chicken pad thai that he keeps rearranging with his chopsticks. Gabe has plain white rice, and takes the tiniest bites possible under the guise of eating.

“So, chicken pad thai?” Gabe comments, glancing across the table at Patrick. It’s not like he cares _that_ much, he just wants to talk to distract from how little he’s eating (or so he thinks).

“Yep,” Patrick says, still rearranging the noodles with his chopsticks.

Gabe takes a sip of water and says, “Gross.”

With a mouthful of fried rice and broccoli, Pete warns, _“Gabe.”_

“No, it’s fine, Pete. Not all of us can be vegetarians,” Patrick says, narrowing his eyes dangerously at Gabe. In return, Gabe only lifts up his chopsticks a little too high and lets the sleeve of his hoodie slip below his lithe wrists as he puts a painfully tiny clump of rice into his mouth.

“I mean, it’s not _that_ hard to try,” Gabe says offhandedly. “To be a vegetarian, I mean. I’m just saying.”

“You act like you’re so much better,” Patrick says, so lightly it almost sounds like a joke. “But just plain rice for dinner? Just two whole cups of it? You could be healthier.”

“Healther,” Gabe snarks. “I’m not trying to be healthy. I’m just trying not to hate myself.”

“Well, I don’t hate myself for eating chicken pad thai.”

 _“I_ would hate myself,” Gabe says. “And so would Ryan.”

“Ryan Ross?” Pete asks, glancing between Patrick and Gabe in bewilderment. “Since when is he a vegetarian?”

“He’s not,” Patrick mumbles, quickly going back to dragging his chopsticks into his pad thai.

“But he might as well be at this point,” Gabe adds. He drops his chopsticks into the heaping of rice he still has left, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “I can’t say the same about _you.”_

“What the hell is going on with you two?” Pete demands. “Gabe, this isn’t like you--”

“I’m not hungry,” Gabe interrupts, shooting up from his seat and pushing his plate away. _“Patrick_ can have my rice. I’m going for a run.”

“You can’t go for a run, it’s dark out--”

“Fine, I’ll just go to the fucking gym.” Gabe yanks the zipper of his hoodie down and throws it off to the ground, revealing his thin arms and the looseness of his size-small t-shirt. Pete’s clearly bothered, but no words leave his gaping mouth as Gabe spins around and almost glides out of the kitchen with what Patrick sees as skinny boy grace.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think he’d be like… _that,”_ Pete quickly apologizes, turning to Patrick. “You okay?”

“Of course,” Patrick says, smiling and finally putting a piece of chicken into his mouth as an attempt at reassurance.

“Did something happen?”

Patrick finishes chewing the piece of chicken and swallows, ignoring the way his empty stomach lurches at the food. “No. Maybe he’s just had a bad day.” He glances at the door. “I’m sure we’ll find out eventually, one way or another.”

“You’re pretty sure of it.”

“I know,” Patrick says, and he uneasily lifts another portion of pad thai to his mouth.

  
  
  
  


Alex is relaxing in his apartment in front of the TV at 9:35 PM, finishing off a glass of wine when his apartment buzzer goes off. He drags himself off the couch and goes to answer it. “Hello?”

“Suarez?” Gabe’s familiar voice comes in uneven, not only because of the crackling of static but a shortness of breath. “Can… can you let me in? I’m tired and I need you to make me some… some good fucking food.”

“Um, sure. But couldn’t you have just gone to a resta--”

“I can’t just eat in public!” Gabe snaps. “Please, can you let me up? I was just at the gym and if I’m out here any longer my legs are gonna--”

“Fine, fine, you can come up,” Alex says, jabbing the button to unlock the apartment building doors for Gabe. He’s looking through his fridge for ingredients when there’s a pounding on the door, and he slams the fridge shut to go open his apartment door. Gabe is leaning against the wall, wearing a year-old bright purple merch sweatshirt that fits him baggily, drooping down so far it almost envelopes his hips. His forehead is covered in a sheen of glistening sweat, his hair wet and matted, his cheeks pale. His eyes are dark and weary with exhaustion, and he’s still catching his breath.

“Thanks,” Gabe gasps out, stumbling in. He stops, keeling over and grabbing his stomach. “I think I need to sit down. Mierda, my stomach hurts like a _bitch.”_

Alex pulls out a chair for him at the kitchen table, which Gabe slumps into. “I’ll make you something simple, then. Rice and beans okay?”

“Sure.”

Alex gets him a glass of water first, then starts gathering ingredients. He takes out a can of beans and a bag of white rice from the cabinets, then digs in the fridge drawers and puts a red bell pepper and an onion on the counter. At this, Gabe wrinkles his nose.

“You don’t need to add pepper and onion,” he says. “Just the rice and beans is fine, really.”

“But it’ll add some flavor,” Alex says, grabbing a cutting board and a pan. “You don’t want plain rice and beans, trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Gabe frowns and leans back in his chair, tilting his head back until he can see the ceiling. Glumly, he says, “Fine.”

Alex chops up the vegetables and sautes them in the pan, then opens the cabinets back up to take out stock and pour some into the pan. At the sound of the sizzle, Gabe’s head shoots up. “You’re using vegetable stock, right? Not chicken stock?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, it’s vegetable stock.”

Still, Gabe has his doubts. “Are you _sure?”_

Alex shows him the stock carton, which has a picture of vegetables and soup on the front. “Very sure.” After Gabe’s nod of approval, Alex puts the cap on the stock and stores it in the fridge. “So… how was the gym?”

Gabe shrugs. “Fine, I guess. I felt like everyone was staring at me the entire time, but it was too dark to go running, so I didn’t really have a choice.” His stomach growls. “How long is the rice and beans gonna take? I’m _starving.”_

Alex shrugs. “Maybe about thirty more minutes, give or take. Do you want a snack in the meantime?”

“No!” Gabe exclaims. “I mean, uh, no thanks. I’m alright. I can wait.”

Alex turns away from the stovetop and raises a brow. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself. How much have you eaten today, anyway?”

Gabe thinks for a moment, and realizes he hasn’t really eaten at all, unless the two black coffees he had in the morning and one Diet Coke in the afternoon count. “None of your business,” he eventually spits out.

Alex sighs, pushing around the vegetables in the pan with a spatula. “Thought so.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, man,” Alex says, continuing to push the vegetables around so he can avoid looking at Gabe and his blatant emaciation. “But this is the first time I’ve cooked for you in _months._ Actually, maybe even a year. You always refuse my dinner party invitations even though the rest of the band goes. Like, I was even planning to make matzo ball soup for you at the last one and you still said you’d be busy.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to go, but--”

“You realize how this all looks, right?” Alex asks. “You show up at my door after overexercising and demand I make you food for the first time in a while. You fainted on stage last year. You keep losing more and more weight. You never want to eat with us.” He puts down the spatula and takes the pan off heat, reaching into a cabinet for pots for the rice and beans. “It’s going to be apparent to everyone else at some point, you can’t just keep going like this--”

“Cállate,” Gabe interrupts. “What I do to myself is nobody’s business. I don’t need help and I don’t want it. I’m a grown adult.”

Alex slams a can-opener onto the counter and states, “You have an eating disorder.”

Gabe becomes still, and the air becomes thick.

“We live on a bus together for part of the year,” Alex continues. “I’m not stupid, we’ve all noticed. We just…” He puts the can-opener on a can of beans and twists it open. “We just don’t know what to do about it. You _want_ to destroy yourself. We don’t know how to bring it up without freaking you out.”

Gabe gulps. Under the table, he wraps his hand around his wrist. He’s not skinny enough to recover. It’ll never be enough to recover. Meekly, he says, “Then don’t. Don’t bring it up. I’ll be fine. I’ll stop eventually. You don’t need to tell Ry or Victoria or Nate that I was here… or Pete. Especially not Pete.”

“You really think you’ll stop eventually?” Alex asks doubtfully, turning to look at him.

Gabe nods desperately.

Alex observes for a moment, pursing his lips as he thinks before turns around and carefully plucks the top off of the can of beans. “I know whatever we try, you’re going to resist.”

“Exactly.”

“So, a couple of months,” Alex decides. “If you haven’t at least tried to get better before Warped Tour--”

“I will,” Gabe promises sincerely, although each of them know he has no intention. “I can try.”

He wraps his fingers around his wrist tighter. A couple more pounds, maybe then he’ll try to eat at maintenance for a while to ward off suspicion before going further to reach his full potential. He thinks he can do it. It sounds easy enough.

  
  
  
  


Pete flinches when he feels Gabe’s cold body lie down next to his. His arms are freezing.

“Where were you?” Pete asks, turning around to face Gabe. In the dim bedroom, he can barely see the exhaustion rimming his eyes. “You feel like ice, too.”

“Shower was cold,” Gabe says, as if the temperature wasn’t purposeful at all. “I went to the gym and then I ate dinner at a friend’s place.”

“How was it?”

“Good,” Gabe says. “We had fun. The food was good.” That’s not a lie; eventually, the tension had melted just enough for Gabe and Alex to tentatively start throwing around a couple lyric ideas. And considering Alex’s culinary experience, the rice and beans were _maybe_ worth the calories, although Gabe doesn’t know exactly how much. When Alex was in the bathroom, Gabe had googled the calories and dug through the trash for the discarded bean cans just in case. Eventually, he ended up at an estimated 220 calories for one cup. Gabe had definitely eaten more than three cups, and the only thing that had stopped him from purging it was the fact he’d eaten nothing else that day.

“That’s nice,” Pete says plainly.

“Also… I’m sorry for earlier,” Gabe says. “I already apologized to Patrick and we’ve gotten over it. I shouldn’t have been rude and just ran out. That was shitty of me.”

“It was shitty,” Pete confirms. “But I’m glad you realize that. Is something going on? Whatever it is, I’m here for you, babe.”

“Don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Gabe lies. “Just a bad day.” As a distraction from the topic at hand, he inches forward to press his lips to Pete’s and kiss him softly. Pete responds eagerly, his hand reaching up to gently cradle the back of Gabe’s head. Even as they escalate it, the kissing becoming more fast and frenzied as Pete pushing his hips into Gabe’s, the ache of exercise refuses to leave the depths of Gabe’s heavy limbs.

“We can do whatever,” Gabe breaks the kiss to say. “But I want to keep my shirt on.”

“But why?” Pete asks, pressing a few fleeting kisses to his throat. “You’re _hot.”_

 _No,_ Gabe thinks, remembering when he had asked him to cover up for Patrick’s sake. _You’re ashamed of me._ “I just do. Please?”

He can feel Pete frowning against his neck, but he gives in and says, “Fine.”

  
  
  
  


“D’ya think we should stop at McDonalds for lunch?” Spencer asks. Ryan glances away from the bus window he’s been staring out of, the cars and highways of California speeding by.

“I think we’re ahead of schedule,” Jon says, lifting up his wrist to look at his watch. “Now that you mention it, I could go for a milkshake.”

Brendon yawns and stands up from his seat. “I’ll give the tour manager a call. Hang on a sec, I think it’s quieter in the back of the bus.”

“It’s really not,” Spencer says, because this is the inconsequential disagreement that had been decided upon last night that will probably last for the rest of the tour. Ryan used to think it was a fun quirk of the band; now, it only irritates him, like everything does these days.

Brendon sticks his tongue out at Spencer and still goes to the back of the bus, leaving the three other Panic members to wait. To fill in the time, Jon asks, “What do you guys think you’ll get?”

“I’m not getting anything,” Ryan says, noticing how Jon and Spencer’s gaze immediately falls on him. Before they can judge, he crosses his arms and adds, “Their coffee is shit, anyways.”

“But it’s McDonalds,” Spencer says. “Or whatever fast food place is at the next exit. We’re going there for _lunch._ Not drinks.”

“I’m not interested in fast food,” Ryan says. “It’s greasy and disgusting and addictive and it’s the reason why our country has an obesity epidemic. I’ll pass, thanks.”

Spencer sighs before letting out a short, amused laugh. “Are you _still_ trying to diet? Dude, you know that shit’s never going to work.”

“Shut up,” Ryan says lightly, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t need to listen to them. It does work. He ate 200 calories a day for a week leading up to the release of Pretty. Odd. so he would be skinny for the release party, promotional photos and interviews, and now the Honda Civic tour they’re currently headlining. It had worked. He’d lost five pounds, a victory he’d smugly kept secret (apart from the members of the Decaydance Weightloss Competition, of course).

“How long has this been going on, anyways?” Jon asks.

“At least a few years now,” Spencer says, shooting a mischievous grin at Ryan. “But Brendon still hasn’t fucked you. Give it up already, dude.”

Ryan scoffs. “I wouldn’t diet for _him.”_ Sure, Brendon’s hot and all, but Ryan wouldn’t resort to the torture of eating two-hundred calories a day for that guy. He does it for the speculation on teenagers’ eating disorder blogs and forums, for the sweet feeling of being empty, to match the skinny boy persona he gives off in his lyrics.

But most importantly, to _win._

Maybe once those things weren’t important, when he’d wailed to William his desire to recover (and damn, he’s forever glad William talked him out of _that_ possible nightmare), but with the overnight fame of Panic! At The Disco came even more pressure. He’d become a celebrity almost overnight, a celebrity with fans with expectations. It was no longer about the sense of control it had given him when he had still lived with his alcoholic father; as soon as he was out of there, it had spiralled. The sense of control was always just an excuse; after all, the anorexia didn’t go six feet under when his father did. Like a virus, it mutated.

Ryan can’t disappoint. Ryan is controlled. Ryan is Ryan Ross. And Ryan Ross always wins.

“Just _eat_ something already,” Spencer continues. “Like, come on. You have to at least get some fries if we go. You used to love fries, right?”

“I’m not getting fries,” Ryan says stubbornly, turning away to gaze out the window again. It’s all grape fields, vines covered in dust and dirt, crawling with bugs. Sometimes, Ryan wishes he didn’t have to consume food at all (he doesn’t actually, he just wishes he thought like that).

“You’re already skinny enough,” Jon says. “I don’t know what your problem is, just because you skip lunch doesn’t mean Brendon will--”

“I have a _girlfriend,_ for your information,” Ryan insists. That’s not true; she broke up with him last week. Apparently you’re supposed to take your girlfriend on dates, such as to a restaurant or ice cream shop, and apparently men aren’t supposed to have eating disorders or a desire to be skinny either. So Ryan had dumped her after that fight; she was probably with him just for the money, anyways. Ryan is more than willing to accept he’s not that hot yet. “Stop bringing up the Brendon thing already. You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get me to eat.”

“Good news!” Brendon calls out, bounding back into the front area of the bus. “The back of the bus _is_ quieter--told ‘ya, Spence--and we can get fast food at the next exit!” He then sprints down the narrow aisle to inform the bus driver with just as much eagerness.

Ryan doesn’t understand how he has so much energy; how does _anyone_ have that much energy? It takes a considerable amount of effort to just drag himself out of bed.

“Looks like we’re going to Mickey D’s whether you like it or not,” Spencer chastises. “You’re going to have to get something, you know.”

Ryan leans forward, pressing his nose against the window. “No,” he refuses again. “I’ll be good, thanks. I’ve got stuff in the fridge.”

“Brendon,” Spencer calls out, as he comes back from talking to the bus driver. “Open the fridge and tell us what’s in there.”

“Uh, sure.” Brendon bends down and cracks the minifridge of the bus kitchenette open. “Um, there’s Jon’s leftover pasta, my leftover pizza…” He takes out a plastic bag and peers into it. “Celery,” he adds, shoving it back in and taking out another bag. “And more celery. Fuck, is that _another_ bag of celery?” His head spins to face his bandmates as he holds up a bag. “Who the fuck eats this much celery? Who the hell brought this?”

Ryan feels the heat of eyes burning into his back. “I did,” he mutters. “But that’s not all I have! I mean, we have stuff in the cabinet. I’ll eat that too.”

“Yeah, sure, let’s take a look in the cabinets,” Spencer dares.

Brendon pushes the bag of celery back and shuts the fridge, shooting up to his feet to open the cabinet. “So… Ryan’s shelf only has rice cakes. Did you accidentally put your stuff somewhere else or--”

“I think celery and rice cakes are fine as snacks,” Ryan mumbles.

“Not when that’s the only thing you eat,” Jon says.

“Brendon, tell Ryan he’s being ridiculous for not wanting to get McDonald’s with us.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Brendon says flat-out, “Are you still on your dieting shit? Just get a fucking salad or something. Your body will like, go into starvation mode and then you won’t lose any weight.”

 _That’s not how it works, and a salad is a million calories, especially with dressing,_ Ryan wants to say. But instead, he stays silent and pushes his nose harder against the window. Brendon flops down next to him on the couch and squeezes Ryan’s arm. Ryan slaps his hand away and shoots out of his seat. Nausea fizzes in his stomach, as he becomes aware of every inch of fat laden across his bones. “Hey! What the hell was that for?”

“You’re literally not that fat,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes. “Like, just fucking look at yourself for once.”

Ryan crosses his arms. “I’ve never once said I thought I was fat!”

“Bitch, it’s all you talk about,” Brendon fires back, and he mocks, “You’re like, _Sorry, I can’t go get ice cream with you guys, I’m on another stupid juice cleanse,_ or, _Here’s another song about how tiny and pretty and better than everyone I am because that’s clearly all I care about._ Dude, for fuck’s sake, all we’re telling you to do is eat a shitty fast food restaurant salad and you’re acting like you always do, like you’re _so_ great.”

“I don’t care, Brendon,” Ryan states. Although he’s only been standing a couple seconds, his head begins to ache dully, and he grabs the wall to keep himself balanced.

“You think you’re better than us,” Brendon continues. “But you’re not. Being skinny is worth _nothing._ You’re never going to be as hot as you think you are. I don’t even know how you have a girlfriend, because you’re honestly a self-absorbed, bitchy _skeleton--”_

The bus jostles, throwing Ryan off his feet and to the ground. His head slams against the floor with a heavy _thump._

“Ouch, you okay?” Brendon asks, pausing his criticism for one second of sympathy. However, Ryan doesn’t groan or move. He remains utterly still. “Ryan?” He pokes the edge of his foot against Ryan’s side. “Ryan?”

  
  
  
  


By now, Patrick’s been at Pete’s apartment for a couple of weeks, and everyone has settled into a routine. Gabe tells Patrick whenever Pete momentarily leaves the apartment and pretends he doesn’t hear the sound of purging, and Patrick in return doesn’t say anything about Gabe’s constant browsing of eating disorder forums--at least, as long as he doesn’t comment on Patrick’s recovery choices again and keeps him up to date on the Decaydance Weightloss Competition. This arrangement has been going considerably well up until the point Gabe walks into the kitchen while Patrick is spreading peanut butter on his sandwich and mentions, “Ryan passed out,” as he opens the fridge to grab a Diet Coke.

Patrick drops the butter knife covered in slick peanut butter on his plate with a clatter. “Ryan _passed out?”_

Gabe cracks open his can of Diet Coke and slams the fridge shut. “Mhm,” he says, taking a sip. “William just told me. Ryan and Brendon were arguing on the bus because he didn’t want to get lunch, he stood up, the bus shook when they were turning off at an exit, and then Ryan just dropped. Like a fly.” He takes another sip, staring at Patrick the whole time. “I hope they tube him. He deserves it. I mean, he doesn’t, because he works the hardest out of all of us. But I think it would really take him down a notch if he were to be officially diagnosed and gain a few pounds, right?”

Patrick stays eerily still, his eyes wide. “Do you think he will?”

“Probably not,” Gabe says. “I mean, he’s passed out a million times, hasn’t he?” He starts counting on his fingers under his breath, muttering, “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro… cinco? Yeah, cinco… seis? I don’t know, but it’s a lot. He’s lucky he hasn’t done it while performing yet. And nobody even gives a fuck. No wonder he acts like he does, he can get away with pretty much anything.”

“Yeah…” Patrick says softly and almost detached, his eyes becoming blank.

“William told me he’s only been eating rice cakes and celery for the past two days,” Gabe adds. “I hope I can get to that point eventually. Doesn’t that sound _amazing?_ I’d lose so much weight subsisting on only that. Although in reality, I know I couldn’t. Ryan’s better than me, if I tried that I know I’d only end up binging and then sticking my fingers in my mouth and--”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Patrick says lightly, sucking in a breath. He turns around, staring at the peanut butter sandwich he had been making in horror before picking up the plate and whipping it into the sink with too much force, causing it to shatter. “I can’t fucking do this anymore!”

Gabe furrows his eyebrows, unsure what exactly he did wrong. All he did was talk about Ryan. “Are you--”

“I’m not!” Patrick shrieks, his eyes already shiny and overflowing with tears. “I’m fine! I just… I can’t do this anymore! I can’t recover, not when--”

Pete, overhearing the outburst, rushes into the kitchen. “Patrick, are you--”

“I’m leaving!” Patrick yells. “I’m tired of gaining weight and getting fat and--”

“Trick, just calm down, you should call your therapist.”

“I’m _not,”_ Patrick hisses. “I want to go home. I’ve tried and it’s useless, I’m never going to recover.”

“You’ve been doing so well--”

Patrick laughs. “You think I’ve been doing well? I’ve purged every single fucking day for the past few weeks when you weren’t home!” He pushes past Pete, storming out the kitchen. Pete opens his mouth to say something, but falters, shoulders weighed down by disappointment as Patrick leaves. Gabe blinks and lifts his can of Diet Coke to his lips.

Pete, after a moment of processing, turns to Gabe. His eyes fall on the soda can. “Was it the Diet Coke that set him off?”

Gabe shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe.” He tilts the can up for a sip.

Pete sighs. “You’re so insensitive.”

“Me?” Gabe points to himself. “Insensitive? As if _you_ know anything about eating disorders.”

“As if you know anything, either.”

Gabe glares at him, but says nothing during their brief moment of stillness before Pete turns around and leaves.

  
  
  
  


“Lucky for you, it doesn’t seem like you have a concussion,” the doctor says, marking down something on his clipboard. A small but bright purple bruise adorns Ryan’s forehead as he sits slumped unhappily in a chair, surrounded by the boring and sterile white walls of the first clinic they had found off the highway exit. “But you should still take it easy for a few days.”

“Will he still be able to play tonight?” Jon asks, hovering nearby. Out of the band, he had been deemed the most mature and thus was forced to be the one to accompany Ryan into the clinic despite the fact he’d insisted he could go in alone.

The doctor grimaces. “Well… I wouldn’t recommend it.”

After Ryan fills out some health insurance forms, he’s good to go and walks out of the clinic with Jon. Once they’re out the door, Jon stops and squints through the beams of the California sun at Ryan. For a solid second, he watches his gaunt figure move carefully across the parking lot before calling out, “Ryan, before we go back to the bus, can we talk for a minute?”

Ryan pauses and turns around, walking back to Jon. Now that Jon’s studying him, it’s clear his legs are impossibly thin, shockingly so that his pants are more like baggy denim sweatpants than black skinny jeans, only a leather belt keeping them from falling down. “What is it?”

“I know no matter what, you’ll want to play tonight--”

“Duh.”

“--so if you promise me you’ll eat whatever the guys bring back for lunch, I’ll lie and say that the doctor said you’d be absolutely fine to play.”

Ryan groans. “Well, I think the sun is making me nauseous…”

“Since when does the sun make people nauseous?” Jon says. “Look, you never fucking eat. A burger and fries isn’t going to kill you. You can’t just collapse on stage like you did on the bus. Your dieting has gone _too_ far that it’s starting to affect the rest of us, to the point we’ve had to make a detour to a clinic to make sure you don’t have a concussion. Don’t let it go further than this. You either eat or a guitar tech _will_ play in your place tonight.”

Ryan knows it’s not a lie. After all, Jon had been a guitar tech before Brent didn’t up one too many times. Still, he scoffs. “That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“If you were smarter, you’d wake up and realize how much of a fucking skeleton you look,” Jon remarks. “I hate to say this, but you look like you’re about to die any day of a famine or something. Do you think that’s _hot,_ Ryan? Do you think that’s _sustainable?_ I’m starting to think you really have a problem--”

“I’ll eat,” Ryan interrupts. “I’ll eat, and we never speak of this again.”

  
  
  
  


_**You have four new voicemails from Ryan Ross.** _

_“Hey, Gabe, this is Ryan. Um… I need you to call me back soon. Really soon. Just… get back to me when you can. Okay.”_

_“Sorry to leave a second voicemail, it’s Ryan again, but uh… this is serious. The band just made me eat fast food and if it’s in my stomach one more second… fuck. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Please help me.”_

_“Gabe, fucking call me back. I… I need you to tell me how to purge. I forgot to buy laxatives and I’m desperate. I’m still an anorexic though, I’m not_ weak. _Just this once.”_

 _“Oh fuck, what’d I just say? Please don’t listen to the last three voicemails if you haven’t already. I wasn’t thinking right. I’m fine, I just figured it out on my own._ *coughs* _Just don’t tell William and Patrick. Please. It’s this one time and I’m never ever going to do it again, so nobody needs to know.”_

  
  
  
  


It’s supposed to be date night. Pete and Gabe stand in silence in the new releases section of a video rental store, surrounded by DVD cases depicting hot blondes and bloody businessmen. Neither pour through the selection, instead lingering with their hands in their pockets as they stare at the shelves uncomfortably. Gabe’s cell phone starts vibrating for the fourth time now, and rather than answer, he just lets it go to voicemail. It’s probably Ryan again, and whatever he wants to say, which Gabe would guess is some choice words about Patrick’s sudden breakdown, he doesn’t feel like listening to at the moment.

“What do you think of this one?” Pete asks, pointing to a Blu-ray DVD for Night at the Museum, a considerably tamer movie than they usually would rent to watch together.

“Maybe,” Gabe says. “I think the Cobras watched that one without me.”

“Why?”

Gabe shrugs, not wanting to mention he had been watching The Academy’s show for William thinspo. “I think I was asleep. Or too drunk to remember.”

Pete plucks the DVD from the shelf and starts reading the description on the back. Again, they fall silent, the quiet utterly deafening, and Gabe asks timidly, “Have you… heard anything from Patrick?”

“Yeah,” Pete says softly. “Texted to say he was boarding a flight to O’Hare before we left for Blockbuster. He told me he already cancelled his next scheduled therapy appointment. He’s not gonna try to find a new one in Chicago, either.”

“Oh,” Gabe says. He picks up a DVD case and turns it over to the back to avoid thinking, but it’s like he’s forgotten how to read, the tiny words making his head hurt. He glances at Pete and asks, “Are you okay? We don’t have to do date night if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine. A movie would be a good distraction. I’m fine, and I’m not mad at you, I’m just worried about him. Sure, he’s gonna keep purging, but…” Pete’s voice becomes a whisper, “I should have realized before I let him leave that it’d be safer for him to stay and allow him to do that than let him go home and throw up alone. At least if you or I were here while he does it, we could keep a close eye, but if something happens and he’s all alone…” Pete’s eyes grow glassy as he confides to Gabe, “I don’t want him to die curled up next to a fucking toilet or in a pool of his own vomit. He doesn’t deserve that. Nobody does.”

“Do you wish you could have done anything differently?”

“I do,” Pete admits. “Even with the advice from his therapist and the internet, I still don’t know jack shit about bulimia. I should’ve just tried to convince him to go to a treatment facility. They couldn’t fuck up anymore than I have. What if I just made it _worse?”_

“Pete,” Gabe says sincerely, putting the DVD back on the shelf to clasp his boyfriend’s hand. “You did the best that you could. When Patrick’s had time to calm down, you guys can talk it out. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”

“I hope so,” Pete says. A second goes by before he chuckles. “At least he was a bulimic, so he was easier. Imagine if someone trusted me enough to care for an anorexic. Man, that’d be even more of a disaster!”

“A disaster,” Gabe repeats, preferring to look down at the frayed gray retail store carpeting than meet Pete’s eyes. “It sure would be, huh?”

“Good thing that’s not happening anytime soon,” Pete says amusedly. “Anyways, let’s just rent Night at the Museum, I think the pizza’s gonna be ready for pickup soon.”

“Pizza?” Gabe asks. His grip on Pete’s hand noticeably tightens, nails digging into his skin, but Pete doesn’t say anything. “You didn’t tell me you were ordering pizza.”

“I thought I did. Why? Do you want something else?”

“Nope.” Gabe strains to smile, eyes still glued to the fascinatingly dull carpet. “Pizza’s just _great.”_

Using Rami Malek’s jawline as thinspo, Gabe eats only one slice of pizza while Pete has no problem devouring the rest. He can easily fool himself into thinking tasting the grease on Pete’s tongue on an almost-empty stomach is just as good as eating.

  
  
  
  


As soon as Patrick lands, rather than unpack his suitcase he goes to the grocery store to buy the items required for a binge. It’s easier to eat than think about Pete’s disappointment, or how he’ll be received back in the Decaydance Weightloss Competition after his brief recovery stint.

In total, he eats: one and three-quarters pints of maraschino cherry ice cream, a bag of yogurt-covered pretzels, two sharing sized bags of M&Ms (one regular and one peanut), a bowl of microwaveable ramen, five snickerdoodle cookies, eleven dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, and washes it all down with as much cold tap water he can stomach before he goes running to the bathroom.

The freedom of being at home and alone is so sweet. Rather than stifle the sounds of his vomiting, it echoes off the tile walls.

  
  
  
  


Before getting into the freezing cold shower, Gabe listens to Ryan’s voicemails and, surprisingly, finds himself _empathizing_ with him, of all people. The first time is always the worst, a fact Gabe definitely knows from experience. But the sentiment doesn’t last long; at least now Ryan knows how it feels to be _weak._

 **_ryan purged._ **Gabe texts William later, with wet hair and sitting in a bathrobe on he and Pete’s disheveled bed, a can of Diet Coke perched on top of a pile of sheets. Pete’s English Bulldog, Hemingway, is curled up in the dog bed in the corner, watching Gabe with weary eyes.

William’s response comes quickly. **_NO WAY CALL ME RN_ **

“I can’t fucking believe it,” William exclaims, as soon as he picks up. “You gotta be shitting me. _Ryan,_ of all people, _purged?”_

“While I was at the video store with Pete he left _four_ voicemails. Basically Panic forced him to eat fast food and he asked me how to purge. The last voicemail was him saying nevermind and that he figured it out on his own. But don’t tell me that I told you, please.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I know how pissed he’d be if anyone found out he wasn’t a one-hundred-and-ten-percent purebred anorexic.” An audible crunch comes through the speaker, and muffled, William says, “Sorry, ‘m also chewin’ n’ spittin.”

“Oh, that’s fine.” Gabe picks up his Diet Coke and takes a sip. “What are you eating?”

In the moment of silence that passes, he can barely hear William spitting before he answers, “Cookies. Hearing that Ryan purged made me crave food. Is that weird?”

Gabe shrugs. “There’s weirder.”

“Anyways, Patrick already texted me to tell me he’s rejoining the competition. I wonder what Ryan will say to him, now that he’s stooped to his level. Do you think Ryan will become a purger?” He bites down on another cookie. _Crunch._ Gabe can practically see it crumbling all over William’s hand.

“If he does, he’ll never admit it,” Gabe says. “But I’m sure we’d eventually be able to tell. He’s so shit at hiding his eating disorder. The only reason he doesn’t have a tube up his nose is because his entire band is stupid as fuck. He’s literally so skinny he has nothing to throw up but his damn organs. And then Brendon would see his stomach in the toilet and _still_ be like, _how did that happen?”_

“Mhm,” William says, still masticating on a cookie before spitting it out. “Probably. By the way, I’ve been wondering, how much weight have you lost for Warped so far? In the last week I’ve gone down one-and-a-half pounds. That’s the only reason I’m letting myself chew and spit.”

Gabe can’t hide his smirk as he lifts the Diet Coke can to his lips. “Four pounds this week.”

“No way, _four?”_

“I think I finally dropped the water weight I was holding onto. It probably helped that Patrick was around, too. Now that he’s gone, I doubt I’ll do as well.”

“Well, at least you’ve still got the forums,” William says. “Not all of us can say the same.”

The door to the bedroom opens, and Pete walks in, hair sopping wet and his toned body bare apart from the towel wrapped around his waist from showering after Gabe. “Who’re you talking to?”

“William,” Gabe answers quickly, hoping Pete hadn’t eavesdropped on the conversation before walking in. “I’ll be off the phone in a minute. Bill, I gotta go, but we can talk more later. See ‘ya.” William says goodbye, and Gabe hangs up, plugging his cell phone in to charge it before taking a final gulp of Diet Coke.

As Pete throws on a shirt, he notices the can Gabe is holding and comments, “Y’know, that’s pretty much all you drink.”

“Not true.” Gabe puts the empty can down on the cluttered nightstand, shoving it between a book and a box of tissues. “I drink coffee.”

“Well, yeah, but besides that.” Pete crawls onto the bed, laying on his stomach. “Why do you never have just regular Coke?’

Gabe shrugs, laying back and rolling onto his side to face Pete. “Too much sugar. You know how my mom’s a dentist, I’ve heard plenty of horror stories over the years. If I drank regular soda at the rate I do, I’d get _so_ many cavities.”

“Sure, _Dr. Saporta,”_ Pete jokes, rolling his eyes. “Dude, every time I ask you a question it always turns into a fucking lecture.”

“What, do you have a problem with that?” Gabe asks, suddenly defensive. “I just don’t want you to think I have an eating disorder after everything with Patrick, that’s all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gabe,” Pete assures him. “Of course I wouldn’t think you have an eating disorder. I mean, you’re just really good at trying to be healthy. Like, _really_ good to the point where I’m jealous. You go for a run or to the gym _every_ single fucking day. I don’t know how you do it.”

Gabe’s eyes drop. “I don’t know how I do it, either.”

“Besides,” Pete continues unhelpfully, “you’re way smarter than that. Not to say Patrick’s stupid, but I mean, after seeing what he went through, I know you’d never do some crap like that to yourself.” With sincerity, he looks Gabe in the eyes and says, “I’m glad you’re healthy.”

“Um… yeah.” Gabe gulps, not daring to look over and betray the fact Pete’s statement would be highly incorrect. “Thanks.”

Pete takes Gabe’s hand, tilting his head up to lean in for a kiss, but falters as soon as he feels his boyfriend’s fingers. “Your hand…” he says, with an affect that almost sounds like sad awe. He runs his fingers across Gabe’s own and the bones sticking out from the back of his hand. “It’s thinner than the last time I remember it.”

Gabe scoffs. “You literally held my hand when we were at the video store, Pete, and you had no problems then.”

“I know, but I didn’t notice until now.”

Pete, mesmerized, trails his nails between Gabe’s protruding knuckles. Still staring at the ceiling, Gabe feels elated, and almost starts to smile. He’s finally starting to become skinny, he’s finally starting to become the boyfriend that Pete deserves, he’s finally starting to--

“Are you okay?”

The formations of a smile are wiped right off Gabe’s face, replaced by abrupt, slamming confusion. “What?”

“You’re not doing like… hard drugs or anything, are you?” Pete asks. “Being _this_ skinny… Gabe, don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous, but it’s unnatural. You look like a twelve-year-old. No, worse than that. You look like… like...”

Gabe catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and says the words he remembers so clearly. “...like a Holocaust victim?” he finishes.

Pete opens his mouth to deny it, but stops. “Well…”

“Are you kidding me?” Gabe hisses. He yanks his hand away, rolling over to face the wall.

“You said it, not me!”

“Well, you were thinking it!” Gabe cries. “Seriously, fuck off, not all of us have the privilege to just go around saying shit like _that_ as if I haven’t heard my own family talk about our family members getting _shot--”_

“Gabe,” Pete says softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come across that way.”

“Well, it did,” Gabe says brusquely, clutching the edge of the pillow tight in his grasp. “Especially when my dad said the same thing about me.”

Pete’s throat dries. “What? He said that?”

“Why do you think I haven’t talked to him in months?” Gabe snidely remarks. “That shit hurts. It’d take a lot for my own father to say that to my own face, and you’re just _so_ casual about it.”

“But…”

“Don’t you dare say it’s true,” Gabe seethes. Because if it is true, that means that by starving himself, he’s wasting the opportunity his family had given him moving here. He’s something to be _ashamed_ of. Here he is, with more money than he knows what to do with, in a capitalist country with grocery stores filled with an abundance of every food, and all Gabe can do is starve for days and throw it up in sick desperation. He knows this is wrong, especially considering everything his ancestors had gone through as Jews, and yet he can’t stop. There’s no other option.

Gabe doesn’t need Pete to remind him of the pain that had been in his dad’s eyes or the shock in his tone. He doesn’t need to be reminded how absolutely fucking hypocritical this is. The intergenerational trauma in his genes is telling him to _eat, eat, eat_ _while you still can_ and even Gabe can’t achieve that one simple task, instead twisting it in his brain to instead equate to cycles of restricting and binging and purging and then doing it all over again.

If his family knew the truth, and Gabe has no doubt they must suspect _something_ being they definitely aren’t as clueless as Pete, he would be an outcast. A failure of a son, a failure of Jew. Because the only thing Gabe can base his self-worth on anymore is how good he is at having an eating disorder, thanks to the Decaydance Weightloss Competition, and he still can’t see anything wrong with that at all.

Gabe sniffles, choking back the sob he hadn’t realized was there until it tried to escape his throat.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Pete whispers. “I didn’t think it’d hurt you that much. I… I really shouldn’t have brought it up--”

Gabe rolls over and wraps his arms tight around Pete’s waist, pressing his forehead against his clothed chest as he attempts to will away the tears. Pete kisses the top of his head and smooths a hand over his curls before rubbing his back.

“You alright?” Pete asks. “I just… all I meant to say is that you haven’t really been yourself lately…”

“I have been myself,” Gabe snaps. The eating disorder is his personality now; it’s all he knows. He burrows his face deeper into Pete’s chest, closing his eyes until he can see nothing but darkness. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything is fine.”

He has no idea whether Pete believes it or not, but if he doesn’t, he doesn’t say anything and nods, jaw brushing against Gabe’s emaciated cheekbones.

  
  
  
  


At some point between the end of the Honda Civic Tour and the start of Warped Tour, they all end up in New York City around the same time; Patrick to work on Folie à Deux, William to work on Fast Times, and Ryan just because he for once feels like being anywhere but home this weekend despite his band’s busy touring schedule.

And so the Decaydance Weightloss Competition participants end up reuniting, the first time all four have met at once in person, at someone or another’s house party in someone or another’s upscale penthouse. Clustered together in the corner are Gabe, William, Patrick, and Ryan, holding plastic cups with meager portions of alcohol as they play truth or dare because while they may not be drunk, they aren’t sober either.

“Truth or dare?” William asks Ryan.

“Dare.”

“Um…” They’ve long since reached the point where nobody can come up with any original truths or dares, but still keep going anyway and resort to the one idea that never ceases it’s pestering. “I dare you…” William trails off, needing to think before he points to the kitchen, “to go get a potato chip and eat it in front of us.”

“Seriously?” Ryan scowls. “You told me to do that last time. Calories add up, Bill.”

“I don’t care,” William states, cup tilting in his direction. “You should’ve picked truth, then. Now go fetch a potato chip.”

“I’m chewing and spitting it,” Ryan warns, stepping back.

William merely shrugs. “Fine with me.”

This is the first time Gabe has been so disordered in public with them, and the funny thing is, nobody even _cares._ It’s a party, after all; if he vomits, everyone will think he’s had several too many drinks and that’ll be that. Ryan spitting out a potato chip is hardly consequential when everyone is wrapped up in their own shenanigans.

“You’re so mean,” Gabe tells William. “He’s totally gonna binge later, you know he hasn’t eaten at all today.”

“That’s not my problem,” William says with a smug smirk, and then his voice takes on a blasphemous derision, pretending to be appalled with wide eyes and exaggerated hand gestures. “Besides, Ryan Ross doesn’t _binge!”_ Alcohol sloshes near the rim of his cup. “I can’t believe you would assume _he,_ of all people, would stoop so _low!_ ”

“And if he binges, he deserves it,” Patrick adds, much less mockingly. “I gained so much weight when I was living with Pete. He deserves a taste of his own medicine for making fun of me after we all texted each other weigh-ins.”

“You’re the one who asked for meanspo,” Gabe says.

“Well yeah, but from one of you guys. My idea of meanspo isn’t exactly to be told I look like a corpse with swelling skin about to burst with maggots and puss. I hate my body, but even that’s going a little too far.”

“Well, whatever works, right?” William says.

Ryan returns from the kitchen with half of a potato chip and holds it up. “Ready?”

“That’s not even a whole potato chip, Ryan.”

“And I worked very hard to find it, so shut up.” Without allowing further input, Ryan puts the potato chip into his mouth, pretends to wrinkle his nose at the taste, and then spits it into his plastic cup. “There. Happy?”

William nods, eyes glinting in amusement. “Very.”

Now, Ryan turns to Gabe. “Truth or dare?”

“Hmm…”’ Gabe taps his chin in profound thought. “Dare.”

“Um… I dare you… to go talk to Pete.”

“Seriously?” Gabe says. “That’s so boring. You couldn’t even tell me to lick his elbow or something?”

“Well, excuse me for being malnourished.”

Gabe sighs. “Fine, I’ll go talk to Pete for a minute.” He takes a step forward.

“Wait,” Ryan says, and he hands Gabe his cup, partially-filled with beer and a clump of chewed potato chip. “Throw this out for me.”

Gabe begrudgingly takes the cup and wanders away in search of Pete. After about twenty seconds of roaming, he finds his boyfriend on the terrace, sitting on a couch with Joe as he says in a hushed voice, “I feel like he’s been kinda distant lately…”

“Pete!” Gabe interrupts, sliding into the space between him and Joe to wrap his arm around Pete and rest his head on his shoulder. “What’s up?”

Pete, taken aback, says, “Not much…” He squints at one of the cups Gabe is holding. “Ew, what’s that?”

“Oh.” Gabe peers into the cup he forgot he was holding. “Chewed-up potato chip. Ryan wants me to throw it out.”

Pete looks at it weirdly. “...Huh.”

“So you were hanging out with Ryan?” Joe asks, moving further to the side of the couch so as to distance himself from the couple..

“And William and Patrick,” Gabe adds, nuzzling his head further into Pete’s shoulder, suddenly overcome by exhaustion now that he’s sitting down. Maybe going for two runs today to kill time wasn’t the best idea, but since when is over-exercise ever?

“Funny,” Pete says offhandedly, somehow not making any connections as he comments, “Just last year you were wondering why they always hung out together at parties. And now you’re one of them.”

“Yep,” Gabe says proudly. “I sure am.”

“Why do you guys always hang out together, anyways?” Pete asks. “You probably talk to them more than your own band.”

“I dunno,” Gabe answers. “I just think they’re neat.”

“Now you’re being the vague one,” Pete comments.

“Why did Ryan spit a potato chip into his cup, anyways?” Joe asks.

Gabe pulls Ryan’s cup close to his chest defensively. “Bad chip.”

“Since when are potato chips bad?” Joe says with a snort. “He’s already skinny enough, he doesn’t need to even care about how a potato chip tastes--”

“Why don’t you try it, then?” Gabe snaps, sticking out to the cup toward him. Joe recoils, giving him a weird look. “Thought so,” he says, tipping the cup over the back of the couch and letting the contents spill out with a mucky _plop_ on the ground. Both men furrow their eyebrows but say nothing. “If you must know, we were bored and decided to play truth or dare, and William dared Ryan to eat a potato chip, and he didn’t want to eat it so he spit it out. Anyways, I was dared to talk to Pete because nobody has any good ideas, so I’ll go now.” He stands up. “By the way, do you have any good truth or dare ideas?”

“Weird dare,” Joe says. “Who the hell dares each other to eat food, or at least something as normal as a single _potato chip?”_

“I told you, we ran out of ideas. Do you have any or not?”

“Oh, I’ve got one!” Pete says excitedly. “Dare William to take off that bandana he has tied around his leg!”

“That’s a terrible dare,” Joe says.

“No, once I pulled it off him as a joke and wouldn’t give it back. He got really mad and started _crying._ I couldn’t really hear what he was saying, but he said something like I ruined his ‘bodycheck,’ whatever that means. He’s got a weird emotional attachment to a piece of fucking _fabric,_ man.”

Gabe can’t say he’s very surprised to find out that bit of info. “I don’t think I’ll actually be doing that, but thanks for trying. See you guys later.”

  
  
  
  


After the first exhausting day of Warped Tour 2008, Gabe cracks open his laptop to relax in his bunk with a bit of pro-ana forum surfing. After posting his monthly body check picture he took in the tour bus mirror, which to his chagrin looks exactly the same as last month despite a six pound difference, he starts clicking through the new threads. The sight of his own name in a post title causes his entire body to become stiff and freeze up.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, reading the title over and over. **_do u guys think gabe saporta is ana?_ ** That’s definitely his name, spelled right there word-for-word on screen.

His hand curls into a fist, pressing his nails hard into his palms until they sting. Depending on the contents, he’s either going to be screwed or elated, and the racing of his heart offers no solace.

Now that he’s seen it, there’s no turning back. After a couple of moments of hovering over the link, he finally musters up the courage to click it.

**_XxscenegirlskinnyxX posted Today at 10:24 PM:_ **

**_one of my lj friends went to warped tour today and saw cobra starship and posted these pictures. idk how many people here listen to them but doesn’t anyone else think gabe’s gotten really skinny recently? either way, he’s totally my thinspo now, idk whether i want to fuck him or be him. do u guys think he could have an ed?_ **

**_(3) pictures attached_ **

Gabe rakes a hand through his hair and inhales deeply. On one hand, this is definitely not good that people are beginning to suspect his eating disorder. On the other hand… the fact he’s considered _thinspo_ to this user he’s seen plenty of times around the forum is unbelievable. He doesn’t know how, but he’s worthy of aspiration. Huh.

He scrolls, venturing to read the responses below.

**_I definitely think so. He fainted on stage last year, here’s the video: https://youtu.be/5EgibIBTmek_ **

**_I always thought like he’d be an orthorexic cuz he used to be str8 edge, but seeing the recent pics… maybe it’s ana? I’m so fucking jealous. Imagine how many calories he burns getting paid to dance around stage every day._ **

**_IDK but he’s so smexy and hawt now!!! His legs!!! His ribs!!! His hipbones!!! I’m SALIVATING!!!!!!_ **

**_He probably is lol. I watch videos of cobra while I exercise to motivate myself. I hope he keeps getting skinny even if it’s for my own selfish reasons LOL._ **

**_Lmao ur all idiots the pictures have to be photoshopped no way that fatass got so skinny_ **

Gabe slams his laptop shut and pushes it to the side, rolling over and pressing his face into his pillow. Well, maybe that was too much to handle at once. Tired of racing, his heart patters slowly and sadly against his chest. Although everyone else certainly thinks he’s skinny, that one comment sticks out in his head, a speck of darkness swallowing up all the light until nothing is left but all opaque dark.

But he’s thinspo now. He should be happy. He’s gotten so far, and although he’s nowhere close to being done, it’s starting to pay off. And yet, despite the magnitude of that accomplishment alone, he can’t help the feeling of guilt worming up his throat. These kids are going to look at him, correctly assume he’s an anorexic, and make the logical conclusion that the only way to achieve Gabe’s body is starving or throwing up.

“William,” Gabe says, as soon as he picks up the phone. “We need to talk _now.”_

“Good, because I was just about to call you,” William says, somewhat hoarse and out-of-breath. “I got caught doing sit-ups on the bus. What’s your plight?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry--”

“Just tell me why you called me and we’ll decide what’s more important to talk about first,” William says bluntly.

“The kids on the pro-ana forum are noticing,” Gabe says. “Someone posted pictures of me from today. I’m fucking thinspo now, and… I feel _terrible.”_

“Terrible?” William chuckles. “Dude, this means you’re doing amazing! Don’t you hear yourself? You’re fucking _thinspo,_ man.”

“But they’re gonna use pictures of me to--”

“Oh, boohoo, I know,” William says apathetically. “They do the same to me and Ryan. It's not like we chose for them to see us that way, it’s their own faults. And if we weren’t there, they’d just find someone else to use. Like Mikey Way for example, or hell, they’d even be using Sisky or Ryland. You have nothing to feel bad about, and saying something about it would only draw more attention.” His voice softens. “Just let yourself have this. It’s an achievement, I promise you.”

“But… I don’t know…” Gabe mutters. Something about William’s lack of care makes him feel sick.

“If you start feeling guilty, you’ll recover,” William states. “Is that what you want right now?”

Gabe shakes his head. “No.”

“Then just forget it’s happening or accept it. There’s no third option but fucking _recovery,_ and you know that.”

Gabe considers his words and agrees, “Yeah. You’re right. So… what was it you were saying about your bandmates catching you doing sit-ups?”

“Yeah.” William sighs. “That. Basically, I was doing sit-ups in the aisle between the bunks, and then Chizzy walked in. They finally fucking caught me, dude. I’ve been doing this for years and they finally caught me. Ugh, I never thought it would happen.”

“How’d Chizzy react?”

“Concerned, obviously. He didn’t think it was a very good idea for me to be laying on the floor as the bus was driving, in case the bus stopped and I slammed the back of my head against the floor and cracked it open. Which, thinking about it now, sounds pretty reasonable, but…” William swallows back the regret bubbling up in his throat. “I freaked out on him and told him I _had_ to exercise or else I’d get fat. It just came out nowhere. He asked me how much I weighed and in the heat of the moment I told him… it’s one-hundred-and-twenty. He was appalled and told the rest of the band, and then I had to deal with everyone acting worried about me. I was only able to get away when you called me and I was able to pretend it was someone important.”

“Do they know you have an eating disorder?”

“Not yet, but they’re getting close,” William says. “But I’m just going to use my tried-and-true method of eating and purging. I mean, I’ve never purged before, but I don’t have any other options.”

“Dude, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Purging for the first time on _Warped Tour,_ of all times?”

“I don’t have a choice!” William snaps. “I’m not going to recover when I’ve already gotten this far! I thought you’d understand!”

“I do understand!” Gabe insists, his voice raising from its formerly careful volume. “But if you’re reckless, you’re just going to expose yourself to _everyone!”_

“I know what I’m doing. I’ve been doing this longer than _you.”_

“And go ahead and tell me just how much better you are at this,” Gabe demands, “when you _still_ haven’t gotten below your lowest weight, when your greatest fucking fantasy is fainting dramatically on stage, when you can’t hook up with me without fucking crying!”

“Fuck off,” William spits, “and don’t call me again until you realize how much you need the damn Decaydance Weightloss Competition. Because without it, you’d _still_ be a pig.”

A moment of stunned silence passes.

“I’m sorry,” William whimpers. “I didn’t mean it--”

Gabe stabs the end call button and he snaps his phone shut, slamming it onto the mattress. He burrows his head into his pillow again, seeking refuge from reality. But even when he closes his eyes, he can still feel the fat on his inner thighs sticking together. He’s disgusting; no matter how hard he works, it’s for naught. He still feels just as fat as when he first started out.

“Gabe?” Ryland says softly.

Gabe’s eyes widen, and he shoots up and flings the curtain obscuring his bunk back, praying furiously Ryland heard absolutely _none_ of that conversation. But when his gaze falls on Ryland’s frown, he knows he’s not that lucky. “What?” he hisses.

“...Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Gabe says, his weak attempt at feigning innocence sounding more contemptuous than anything.

“I overheard part of the conversation.”

“How much?”

“Enough,” Ryland says softly, his eyes filled with mourning. “I mean, I’m not surprised, we should’ve guessed it before, but… really, Gabe? You have an eating disorder?”

And there it is. The words have been spoken out loud, and there’s no going back.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Gabe says sternly. He yanks the bunk curtain shut. “Goodnight.”

He curls up on his side, waiting for Ryland to leave. When he hears his heavy footsteps pad away, Gabe lets a sob escape from his throat.

  
  
  
  


“So… I guess this is intervention part 2,” Gabe jokes lightly. It’s morning, their tour bus already having parked in San Francisco. The band’s set isn’t for a couple hours, so although the area is milling with emos, they’ve decided to go grab smoothies nearby and talk about the fact of the matter: Gabe’s eating disorder. Nobody’s asked for pictures yet, so it’s probably fine.

Nobody really smiles as they stroll along the pier, hands in their pockets and looking down at the ground covered with crumpled cigarettes or Gabe’s narrow ankles rather than at the glittering waters of the bay or the squawking seagulls.

“You said you’d try to get better before Warped Tour,” Alex says, recalling the night Gabe had shown up at his apartment, exhausted and famished after a bout of compulsive exercise at the gym. He glances up, looking Gabe in the eyes as he asks, “Did you even try?”

Gabe tugs at the sleeves of his purple hoodie. Although it’s a hot day, the temperature hardly matters with how little covers his bones save for thin skin and thin muscle, barely any fat left. And even if he was warm, he’s too ashamed of his arms to even let them show, not after returning to the pro-ana forums in the middle of the night for comfort and seeing a new comment that said, **_looking at his stick arms just made me purge lol._ ** “No,” he admits. “I didn’t try.”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Ryland says. “People faint on Warped Tour all the time who aren’t even starving themselves. You need to eat, at least for these next two months--”

“You don’t have to remind me, we’ve been on Warped before,” Gabe says. “But... it’s just not that easy.”

With sincerity, Ryland asks, “Why not? Whatever it is, we can try to help you.”

“I don’t know.” As they walk, Gabe starts kicking at a pebble. It rolls forward, skidding against the concrete. “I don’t know if there’s even anything you guys can do. I don’t want to get better.” If he eats normally for the rest of Warped, he’ll fall behind. He can’t fall behind, not now.

“We don’t care whether you don’t want to get better,” Vicky says harshly. “You’re the lead singer of this band and you should act like it. You’re too old to have an eating disorder.”

“Piss off, Victoria,” Gabe snaps. “I’m fully aware I’m too old to have an eating disorder, but you wouldn’t believe the kind of shitty luck I have.” He opens his mouth to say more, but in the distance they spot William and Carden, walking together in the opposite direction. The band falls silent as they pass the two, only uttering quiet hellos. William shoots Gabe a sorrowful glance; Gabe can easily guess he must be having a very similar conversation with his own bandmate. If the Decaydance Weightloss Competition comes crumbling down by afternoon, he’ll hardly be surprised.

Once William and Carden trudge out of hearing distance, luckily Vicky shuts up and Alex speaks up instead. “We all, or well, _most_ of us--” He glares at Vicky, who scowls back. “--know how difficult this must be for you, but we want to be there for you. We’re not going to force you to recover. We just want you to stay alive.”

“And what would that entail?” Gabe asks. He tugs down the sleeve of his hoodie again, almost wrapping his fingers around his wrist before forcing himself to stop as he’s reminded that’s technically a bodycheck and would thus be just the cherry on top of everyone’s concerns.

“You drink all of the smoothie you get,” Alex says. “And you actually have to try to eat a couple times a day. It doesn’t have to be huge portions, but… just whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“And no throwing it up either,” Nate adds. “I don’t know whether you do it or not, but I assume if we can’t shit on the tour bus, there’s probably other things you shouldn’t be doing on a tour bus.”

Up until that moment, Gabe has honestly forgotten that he can’t take a shit on the tour bus. Mostly because he almost never does, whether on the bus or not. “I’ll think about it.”

“There’s no decision,” Ryland states. “You either eat, just for these next two months, or I’m telling management and the rest of our dates on Warped will be cancelled. Is that what you really want?”

“On one condition,” Gabe begs, “you guys _can’t_ tell Pete.”

“You mean he doesn’t know?” Ryland asks. “How could he _not_ know when you guys _live_ together?”

Gabe thinks for a moment and then says honestly, “I really have no idea.” But in the back of his head, he knows exactly why: even if he’s skinny enough for most of his fans, he’s still not skinny enough for Pete.

  
  
  
  


“So,” William says, clutching a bottle of water in his hand that shakes with a slight tremor every so often, “What’d they say to you?”

“I have to eat,” Gabe says, crossing his arms and leaning against the side of TAI’s tour bus. “They’re not taking my bullshit anymore. But they’re not going to tell Pete, so that’s what matters.”

“Good,” William says. He raises his water bottle to his lips with a trembling grasp and takes a sip. He refuses to drink any of the canned Monster Energy tour water, mostly because in his opinion it doesn’t taste exactly like water and he’s afraid it contains calories in one way or another, despite everyone else’s constant reassurances _it’s literally just water._ “So you’re gonna eat?”

“Only for Warped,” Gabe says. “I’ll fast for a couple days when I get home. Hopefully that’ll get rid of any weight I end up putting on. They’re not forcing me to recover, which is probably the best I can hope for right now. What about you?”

“I denied it,” William says. “And I’m going to keep denying it. I don’t think they think they can do anything about it at this point. It’s the same cycle of _‘we’re worried about you, Bill,’_ and me saying, _‘it’s fine, really, I’ll try to eat healthier,’_ and then them saying, _‘no you won’t,’_ and me saying back, _‘yes, I will,’_ and then again and again until they’re tired and give up.”

“And you’re not worried about them Baker Act-ing you?”

William snorts, and his entire body shudders ever so slightly with the suddenness. “I doubt they even know what that is.” He takes another gulp of water, wiping the water off his lips with the back of his hand as he adds, “I think this is going to be the tour I actually faint. I can feel it in my bones.”

“As if there’s anywhere else in your body to feel it,” Gabe jokes playfully. William pretends to be annoyed and weakly pushes his shoulder, but secretly smiles in glee.

  
  
  
  


Later that day, Gabe stands at a fence, posing for cell phone pictures for the fans gathered there. Everyone is screaming a million things, but one word hits especially hard.

“Anorexic fag!” someone screams in spite.

Gabe falters, his smile dropping. He doesn’t have the strength to say anything back, although luckily the fans turn on the one rude person and start screaming at him to fuck off. Someone yells, “You’re just jealous he’s skinnier than you!”

Gabe blinks, and then he’s backstage, watching William as his voice fades away, his eyes rolling back as he collapses to his boney knees. The way he falls is anything but graceful; he thumps, shaking the makeshift stage like someone just dropped a corpse onto it.

The music cuts off with a cacophony of half-played notes and falling drumsticks as William’s bandmates and Warped crew members rush to his side, the audience collectively gasping and falling eerily silent.

Gabe’s mind doesn’t even process it. He stares numbly until he has to step aside for the crew members carrying William by his shoulders and legs to the obscured side of the stage, and that’s when Gabe sees his ribs underneath his shirt, hears the way William groans at being set down on the floor and mumbles, “I’m just dehydrated,” even though he’d been waterloading just hours earlier to get rid of the stomach pangs.

The Academy Is… doesn’t play the next city while William recovers. From then on, Gabe eats every day of Warped Tour. Not much, but just enough to keep going, just enough to keep his band on tour.

Unsurprisingly, Ryan faints a couple days later at Glastonbury. The video of Gabe fainting last year keeps circulating, as well as old posts stating Patrick fainted backstage several months ago.

And that’s where the rumors start.

  
  
  
  


“What the _hell_ is this?”

It’s the Long Island stop of Warped Tour, close enough to NYC that Pete actually bothers to come out to see it. But instead of acting grateful to see his boyfriend for the first time in a month, he stomps onto the Cobra Starship bus where Gabe and William are currently hanging out and throws a printed and stapled packet onto the table between them.

William squints at it before picking it up and putting on his glasses to read it. His eyes widen, taking a few moments before he hands it to Gabe. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. The blog post title is in bold, big font, proclaiming, **_PROOF WILLIAM BECKETT, GABE SAPORTA, AND RYAN ROSS ARE ANOREXICS!!!_ ** Gabe finds it funny it doesn’t mention Patrick; the fatphobia is quite apparent, since the news of Patrick fainting is just as common as it is of Gabe’s even without a concrete video.

But then he realizes just how damning this is. People have made the connection.

“I have no idea what this is,” Gabe says, flipping through the pages, although the post is quite thoroughly researched. First is the before-and-after pictures (Gabe can see the difference between William and Ryan’s, but not his own), then the links to videos and photos of them fainting, then quotes from interviews as well as claims from one of the poster’s friends saying he once went to a Decaydance album release party and saw, **_“William, Ryan, Gabe, and also Patrick, all huddled in the corner and touching each other’s collarbones for fun.”_ **

“This is bullshit,” William says, stealing the packet back from Gabe before he’s finished and nervously chuckling as he reads through it again. “Obviously whoever made this has an overactive imagination-- oh.”

Pete raises his eyebrows. “You see it?”

“Yeah,” William says with a grimace.

“What?” Gabe demands, standing up and leaning over the table to see. William places the packet down on the table and turns it toward him to let him see. It’s a screenshot from the pro-ana forum, of one of Gabe’s bodycheck posts. Although it doesn’t show his face, it does show the jeans he was wearing that day and the background of TAI’s tour bus bathroom, compared to stills from the latest TAITV episode of the bathroom and Gabe’s outfits, wearing the same jeans. After that, there’s screenshots of Gabe’s other posts on the site. _black coffee, protein bars, rice cakes, celery :)_ in response to a post asking about favorite safe foods, and _i fainted today, wish everyone would stop being so worried smh_ from a status update the exact day he’d fainted on the Sleeping With Giants tour.

As he reads, his thin thighs fill with the heat of anxiety, sending a chill down his spine and a rush of fear from the pit of his stomach.

“This is stupid,” Gabe finally says. He grabs the packet and shoves it at Pete, not daring to look him in the eyes as he sinks back in his seat. “It’s obviously, like, a fucked-up and weirdly formatted fanfiction. Would anyone really believe for one second that we’re _anorexics?”_

“After Patrick,” Pete says coldly, “I’m not so sure.” He waves the packet in the air. “The evidence is all here--”

“And it means _nothing,”_ Gabe interrupts.

“Oh, so your dad saying you look like a fucking Holocaust victim means nothing to you, too?”

Silence cloaks the entire bus. Even the several bandmates who had been sitting on the couches, secretly eavesdropping, glance up from their laptops and cell phones in bewilderment. William shrinks back, while Gabe freezes in horror, jaw dropping.

“I can’t believe you,” Gabe mutters, his voice slowly rising and growing more furious with every word. Heat boils every inch of his cold, thin limbs. “I can’t _believe_ you’d say something like that in front of everyone! I trusted you! What the _fuck,_ Pete?”

Pete gapes, and trying to be calm, suggests, “Maybe we should take this somewhere else--”

“We’re not taking it anywhere else.” William shoots up from his seat, pointing to the packet as he says, “You shouldn’t have even brought this. You seriously think that’s _real?_ For all we know, it’s a fourteen-year-old delusional fan having a bit of fun, for Christ’s sake! We can’t have rumors like this going around, not when we’re on tour and Fast Times comes out literally next month.”

“Yeah, just ignore it,” Gabe spits. “You’re really good at that, Pete.”

The corner of Pete’s mouth twitches in fury, but he says nothing. Instead, he throws the packet to the ground and storms out. A moment later, the sound of his screaming can be heard, as well as the _thud_ of him kicking a neighboring bus.

“So…” Gabe says, breaking the tension and holding up a pack of cards. It’s almost the same width as his palm. “Anyone wanna play Go Fish?”

“Shouldn’t you… tell him?” Alex asks tentatively.

Gabe glares at him and states, “No. And if any of you fucking say a _word_ to him, I’ll… I’ll… I won’t eat tomorrow!”

Everyone flattens their lips, and Alex mumbles, “Alright then. So… let’s play Go Fish.”

  
  
  
  


At about the same time, Brendon plonks his laptop onto Ryan’s laptop and demands, “What the hell is this?”

Ryan puts down the book he’s been reading (Palahniuk, of course) and takes a look at the screen. Although he has no way of knowing, it’s the same blog post title Gabe and William were just being confronted about: **_PROOF WILLIAM BECKETT, GABE SAPORTA, AND RYAN ROSS ARE ANOREXICS!!!_ **

“You’re asking me?” Ryan asks, confused, glancing between Brendon and the laptop.

“I hope it’s fake,” Brendon says, although he hardly sounds sad; instead, his mood is one more of hard, cruel denial. “You’re not an anorexic. Guys don’t get anorexia. Like, whoever wrote this post is a fucking r--”

“Uh-huh.” Ryan shoves the laptop back at him. “Can I get back to my book now?”

It almost seems like Brendon’s about to back off as he takes back his laptop, but Spencer points out, “But they had to get it from _somewhere._ Maybe you should try gaining weight so rumors don’t spread. How much do you weigh, anyway?”

“Yeah, how much _do_ you weigh?” Brendon pinches the fat of Ryan’s arm. His hand is swiftly slapped away, but Brendon doesn’t act surprised and comments, “You could stand to put on a couple pounds.”

“It’s not hot either,” Spencer adds, raising his eyebrows at Ryan to insinuate his so-called crush on Brendon, which really only makes it worse. But telling them he’s only skinny for himself would be more than beating a dead horse; naturally skinny people don’t say shit like that. Not that they would think he’s naturally skinny, either.

“All my girlfriends are literally skinnier than me,” Ryan points out.

“They’re… really not,” Jon says, tentatively entering the conversation. “I mean, maybe you should take a break from dieting for a while and--”

“And what?” Ryan snarls. “Get fat? You guys want me to stop fitting through the tiny-ass doors of this bus, is that it?”

“Eating slightly more isn’t going to do anything--” Jon tries to assure him, but Brendon cuts in.

“Yeah, because eating a fucking burger for once will make you balloon up like one of the fatasses on The Biggest Loser. Are you that scared, Ryan?” Brendon lifts up his laptop with one hand, the other poised over the keyboard. “Maybe I should leave a comment on this post that it’s completely right and you’re a prissy, self-aggrandizing fucking anorexic--”

“No!” Ryan shrieks. He tries to grab the laptop back, but Brendon jumps back, startled by the adverse reaction.

“Don’t tell me you’re _actually_ an ano--”

Ryan springs up, avoiding eye contact as he pushes past Brendon. “I’m taking a nap.”

  
  
  
  


“You know what would be fun?” William asks Travis, the one from We The Kings. They’re standing in a field in the middle-of-nowhere the night before an off-day, where the hazy heat of summer no longer lingers and is instead replaced by the comforting glow of a crackling bonfire and cans of cheap beer. “So you know the movie Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey? What if both our bands had toured together and we called it: Bill and Trav’s Bogus Journey?” William raises his beer can to his grinning lips. “I’m a genius.”

“Uh-huh,” Travis says, with a polite nod. “Very… uh, very creative.”

A moment passes of staring into the bright bonfire before William suggests, “For real, though, we should do that. It’d be fun.”

Travis almost grimaces, and tosses a strand of his mass of orange hair out of his face. “Are you serious?”

“What?” William asks, suddenly wounded. “Why? Do you guys already have a lot of shows lined up or--”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Travis turns toward William, tipping his beer can toward William. “The rumors. I mean, the turn-out would probably be pretty good and all, but everyone would only be showing up to see if you faint. I don’t want my band associated with… _your_ kind of image.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”

“Oh.” William breathes in, and glances down, watching the light of the fire dance on his thin wrists and slanting fingers. “I mean… yeah. I get it, dude.”

“Don’t get me wrong, though, it’s a good idea,” Travis says, although it’s already far too late to soften the blow. “Call me when you’ve learned how to eat a burger again or whatever.”

William rolls his eyes. _Why is it always burgers?_ “Sure,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound too disappointed. “I think I’m gonna find Gabe.”

“Figures,” Travis mutters under his breath before plastering on the fakest smile William has ever fucking seen. “Sure, nice talking to ‘ya!”

William wanders through the sweaty crowd, taking savoring sips of his beer since he only has enough calories today for one and only one, before Gabe is the only who ends up finding _him_ by racing up to him and grabbing his shoulders, eyes wide and on the verge of panic. “William!” Gabe exclaims, “I think I’m plateauing!”

William raises his eyebrows. “Well, no shit, your band is actually forcing you to eat.”

“But it’s still under my basal metabolic rate!” Gabe says. “I swear, I’m eating under twelve-hundred a day, I’m measuring everything _exactly--”_

“Then it must be water weight,” William says. “Look, if you wanna lose it, just start low restricting again. It’s practically expected if you faint. _Everyone_ fucking knows we have an eating disorder by now; hell, even Travis thinks we’re freaks.”

“Wait, really? Because out of everyone, McCoy’s actually been pretty okay at ignoring my--”

“Not _that_ Travis, I mean We The Kings Travis. Anyways, if you’re plateauing, you have to either suck it up or deal with it.” William lifts his beer can to his lips before finding every last drop is gone. He crumples the can and throws it to the ground, wishing he could have another. “Just ask Ryan for fucking meanspo or something. He’s effective.”

“I tried, but he took too long complaining about it because I called him when it was still like, three in the morning ‘cuz he’s touring in Europe, and he was telling me I was stupid because I’d have to pay for calling overseas, but by the time he actually got to the meanspo he’d barely started when Vicky walked in and I got scared and hung up.”

William sighs. “I mean, all he ever does is complain, and what for? His band doesn’t even care about his eating disorder. So do you want _me_ to give you meanspo, then?”

“Sure. But maybe we should go somewhere else first.”

William brushes him off. “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick. Besides, who’s going to care? Everyone’s busy, and even if they do care, everyone already knows. There’s nothing to be shocked about.”

“I still think we should go somewhere more private.”

“Fine, whatever.” William grabs Gabe’s arm and drags him behind a patch of trees, distanced from the rest of the group of Warped bands and crew. “This far enough?”

“Yeah, it’s good.” Gabe throws off his purple jacket, having given up all hope of ever truly being warm, and lets it drop to the ground. In the darkness, it’s hard to see anything and even the outline of his body is so lanky he nearly blends in with the wiry tree trunks behind him. “Alright, hit me.”

“Okay.” William’s gaze rakes Gabe’s body, skimming up and down his legs and torso and nearly-dented cheekbones. “But you’re so low, I don’t know if I’ll be able to--”

Gabe groans. “Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me? Just _do_ it.”

“Fine!” William snaps, the pent-up frustrations of the night unravelling. He can barely grab the thin layer of fat on Gabe’s stomach, getting hold of more skin than anything else, and states, “You’re fucking _weak,_ and that’s why you were the first one to faint in public and go running to your damn proana forums and ruin it for all of us! Everyone knows what we are now and it’s your fault! If you’re going to keep making being anorexic the only part of your personality, you might as well fucking at least _try_ to look like it. You’re not plateauing because of water weight, you’re plateauing because you’re about to fucking gain and disappoint _everyone._ Put on five pounds and I’ll personally kick you out of the Decaydance Weightloss Competition. Got it?”

Gabe stares blankly at William, the far-off bonfire illuminated in the corners of his eyes. “That was…” he chokes out, “That was really harsh.”

“But you needed to hear it.” William releases his grip on Gabe’s stomach. “You wanted Ryan and you got it. So, Gabe, what will it be?” he taunts. “Are you dedicated to this or not? Because if we’re going down, your fatass is going down with us no matter what.”

“I…”

“Hey... is everything okay?” Ryland asks, appearing around the corner of the trees. William and Gabe both freeze.

William spins around to face him. “Everything’s fine.” He crosses his arms. “Why?”

“Maybe because it’s not any of your business to go around calling my bandmate a _fatass,_ that’s why!” Ryland bursts. “What the fuck, dude?”

“No, it’s okay,” Gabe tries to reassure. “I asked for it--”

“You _asked_ for that?”

Gabe meekly nods and realizes he probably shouldn’t not have said that, because he can feel William’s seething glare burning through his skin.

“Gabe,” Ryland’s eyes soften with disappointment, “I thought you said you’d try.”

“And all I’m fucking doing is gaining weight,” Gabe says. He turns and storms away back in the direction of the buses, calling out behind him, “And there’s no way I’m fucking trying anymore!”

  
  
  
  


After forcing himself to get rid of what little alcohol he’s consumed that night, Gabe slowly stands up and only manages to keep his balance by placing a hand on the wall of the cramped tour bus bathroom, his reflection wavering in the mirror. The smell of vomit is strong, but his eyes are weak, a former shadow of the life that was once there.

But even purging isn’t enough for him. Without hesitation, Gabe reaches for the mirror to pry it open and search for his shaving razor. He gets as far as fumbling to take it out and raising it above his clean, unmarred skin before the full impact of what he’s about to do comes rushing up to his head.

The razor drops to his feet, and Gabe pounds his fist against the mirror. He was about to fucking _cut_ himself, like a teenage girl or something. As if this entire competition isn’t already immature enough.

And yet, no regret follows the realization. After all, he’s already starving himself; what would self-harm _really_ be on top of it all? How would the sting of a cut be any worse than the pangs of hunger or stabbing in his knees? He’s being swallowed up by darkness, of course this was inevitable.

But the cuts would be too noticeable, especially when he’s living on a bus with several others who regularly see him naked, and even he gets hot enough sometimes to take off his purple hoodie during sets despite his insecurities. It is Warped Tour, after all. It’s in no way the best time to start a brand-new habit of self-destruction under the watchful gaze of thousands of fans that see him every day.

Instead, his nails start clawing down the skin of his arm. Scratching back and forth, back and forth. He can say this was an accident, he just fell and scraped himself. Careless shit like this happens all the time, doesn’t it? It’s just an accident, just an unremarkable scratch that will fade away in a few weeks’ time.

It takes a while, but when he finally sees the beads of blood emerge, he grins as they’re swept up and cake the tips of his fingernails.

  
  
  
  


“Gabe?” William’s fist slams on the bus doors as he knocks. “Gabe? Are you there? I’m sorry--”

“Holy fucking shit, can you _stop?”_ Nate calls out, his voice muffled from inside the bus. “He doesn’t want to talk to you!”

“I just want to talk to him!” William insists. “He’s my best friend, and--”

“And you know what you fucking called him.”

“Can’t we just talk about this like adults? _Please?”_

“Adults don’t call each other fatasses!”

“It just slipped out! You know I’m not like that!” William sighs, a moment of silence passing before he pleads, “Please? Just ask him.”

Nate says nothing, but William sees his footsteps shaking the bus as he climbs back up the steps to ask Gabe. A few seconds later, he nearly misses the much lighter steps padding down the stairs. The bus doors whoosh open, and Gabe steps out, the sleeves of his baggy purple hoodie pulled over his hands.

William wrinkles his nose. “You smell like--”

“Like failure?” Gabe croaks out. “Yeah, I know.” He looks back at the bus. “They smelled it, too. I’m sure they would’ve been mad about the bathroom reeking if I hadn’t been crying when they came back.”

“Look, I’m sorry, I just thought you could handle it…”

“No,” Gabe interrupts. “I wanted you to tell me I looked fat. I didn’t want you to tell me that I’m weak and that everything is my fault. That’s not meanspo, William. It’s the fucking _truth._ And…” he rasps, swallowing back tears, “And I don’t want to hear the truth.”

William, wounded by the pain in Gabe’s voice, says, “But the truth is what works.”

“The _lies_ we delude ourselves into are what works. No sane person would be doing this shit.”

For a minute, no other words are spoken. Instead, they only avoid each other’s eyes, the crickets chirping loudly in the nearby brush, bands drunkenly shouting random shit in the distance. Fireflies float around, casting their dots of light in the air like stars. The grass and gravel below their flip-flops are wet, glistening from the faint sprinkling of rain that fell minutes earlier. If not for the tension, it would be as close to romantic as Warped Tour could be, and maybe that’s why Gabe lets his tongue slip, “I can’t believe I ever let you touch me.”

The sentence is a cold, hard stab in the heart. William flinches, but tries to act unaffected. “Fair enough,” he murmurs. “You probably shouldn’t have trusted me with your body at all. Not sex, not critique. Why let me even look at you? All I do is destroy myself. Of course I’d do the same to you. I’m worthless.”

“William…”

“You can leave if you want,” William continues, his shoulders weighed down by sorrow. “You can recover and forget about all this. You don’t have to talk to us ever again. Hell, leave us to _die._ I understand.”

“No--”

“I’m giving you permission to _leave,”_ William states. “So take it. You obviously don’t want this. You’re embarrassed of us, of _me.”_

“No,” Gabe repeats, firmer. “I… I couldn’t just leave you guys. You’ve all become my best friends. You’re the only ones who understand… _this_ kind of shit. If I tried talking about it to the band or Pete or a therapist, they’d freak the fuck out.”

William doesn’t exactly agree out loud, but still nods. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave?”

“I’m sure,” Gabe confirms. He scratches at the ache under his sleeve. “I want this.”

  
  
  
  


“Do we just give up on him?” Vicky asks, tiredly slumped against the partition between the bunks and the seat where she sits, legs pulled to her chest. “I don’t like the idea either, but he’s never going to listen to us. He doesn’t want our help.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Nate says glumly, sitting at the dining table and resting his head on the surface of the dark window. “He’s an adult. We’re not his parents. We can’t force him to do anything.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do, then?” Alex asks, pacing the narrow aisle. “Wait for him to _die?”_

A terse silence falls over the bus until Vicky breaks it by saying, “Well, someone who can do something has to notice at some point. His dad’s a doctor, he’ll definitely--”

“He hasn’t talked to his dad in months,” Ryland says, picking at a stray thread on the couch cushion.

“His mom?”

Ryland gives her a look. “You know the situation with his mother. She won’t fucking know until it’s too late, either.”

“Well, Pete, then.”

Alex chokes out a sad laugh. “If Pete doesn’t know by this point, he never will. Gabe’s shit at hiding it, and Pete’s shit at figuring it out.”

“Then we should tell him,” Nate suggests.

“But we promised we wouldn’t.” Ryland sighs, burying his head in his hands. “We should. We really, _really_ should. But what if it… I can’t believe I’m saying this, but what if it makes things worse? I don’t care if Gabe would never forgive us, as long as it saves his life, but I have no idea if he would just let Pete check him into a hospital.”

“Pete doesn’t need Gabe’s consent,” Alex says. “I looked into it. In New York state, if Pete can force him to see a psychiatrist in some treatment place and it’s determined Gabe has a mental illness that would harm himself or others, he can be kept there involuntarily for fifteen days. After that, he has to meet the requirements for involuntary admission based on medical certification, which I didn’t look into enough, but even so, fifteen days might be enough. _Fifteen days_ could be the difference between life or death.”

“Fifteen days isn’t going to automatically cure him,” Vicky points out.

“But it’s a start,” Alex says. “How much longer can we sit back and watch and let him lie to us? He’s not going to randomly recover of his own free will, but it seems like that’s what we’re waiting for. All in favor of telling Pete, raise your hand.”

Alex raises his hand in the air and waits. Vicky and Nate’s hands stay glued to their sides, while Ryland hesitates, almost raises his, and then lowers it.

Alex’s hand drops. “Are you seriously kidding me?”

“Sorry,” Ryland says. “But… at this point, I don’t know if even Pete could help him.”

“Gabe knows he’s going to die,” Vicky says, “And he doesn’t care. How the hell do we change his mind about _that?_ Face it. He’s already fucking gone.”

Alex stares at all of them, eyes wide in bewilderment before storming off to his bunk and muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable.”

  
  
  
  


“Did you hear the rumors about Gabe? And William and Ryan, too?”

Patrick rubs his eyes, sitting up. A strong, acrid scent hits his nose. He glances over the side of the bed and spots a half-dried puddle of vomit. He cringes, grasp on the cell phone tightening. “Oh, _ew,_ what the fuck?”

“What is it?” Pete asks.

“Nothing,” Patrick quickly answers. “Just a bug I think I squashed in my sleep.” He moves to the other side of the bed and swings his legs over. He’d forgotten purging on the floor last night, too weak from overexercise to even stand to do it in the bathroom, and now it’s staining his favorite pair of slippers. Great. “What was your question again?”

“Did you hear the rumors about Gabe and William and Ryan?”

“Who hasn’t?” Patrick says, feigning ignorance as he stands up. His legs shake and he doesn’t understand how; after all, he’s only lost ten pounds since his failed recovery attempt, stuck in the relentless cycle of binging and purging and restricting and so on. He places his hand on the wall, needing a moment to gather strength before gathering cleaning supplies.

“After a lot of thinking, I just don’t know if Gabe’s capable of something like that,” Pete says. “I mean, I know he’s getting really skinny, but if he says he’s not, I trust him.”

“Uh-huh.” Patrick raises himself from the wall, but a headache stabs at his temple, forcing him to lean on his palm again.

“I… am right, aren’t I?” Pete asks, the doubt he’d been masking creeping into his voice. “I mean, you were mentioned in the post a few times, so if there is something going on…”

“Nope,” Patrick smoothly lies through the pounding headache. “I know just as much as you do. That ‘touching each other’s collarbones’ picture is completely out of context, we were probably _really_ drunk.”

Good,” Pete says. “I mean, the entire thing is ridiculous. As if there’s an entire fucking anorexic conspiracy going on under my nose. I fucking _run_ Decaydance, man. Hell, Gabe is my boyfriend. I’d know. I know I would.”

“Yeah, you don’t have anything to worry about.” Patrick takes a tentative step away from the wall and tries to remember where he keeps the paper towels. Although with how much chewing and spitting he’s done lately, he hopes he hasn’t run out. “If that’s all you need to talk about, I should--”

“No, wait. Just one more question.”

“Sure.”

“How have you been doing?” Pete asks. “You know, since… since you left my place? Please, be honest. Don’t sugarcoat it.”

Patrick swallows. The stench of vomit lingers in the hallway, too. “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Patrick,” Pete pleads. “Please.”

“I woke up to vomit right next to my bed,” Patrick says flat-out. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes,” Pete says softly. “Thank you for being honest with me. If you ever… I mean, I know you have to be tired of me saying this, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here.”

Patrick wants to tell him to fuck off, but it’s way too early to say anything but a halfhearted, “I know. Thank you.”

“I just…” Pete trails off, wondering whether to lay out his thoughts. “I just don’t want to think there’s _any_ possibility Gabe is similar. He hasn’t talked to me since I saw him at the Warped Tour stop in New York. I’m worried about him. You don’t think I went too far, do you?”

“No,” Patrick says. “Just give it a couple more days. He’ll come around. He knows you didn’t mean it.”

“Right,” Pete reminds himself, “I didn’t mean it.”

  
  
  
  


Warped Tour ends without much fanfare. There’s the usual partying and all, and The Academy Is… releases their new album and it’s a minor hit, and Gabe flies back to New York City and dumps his suitcase on the floor of Pete’s apartment, glad it’s all _finally_ over. By now, Gabe’s pretty exhausted about fans asking him if his weight is natural or that one random crew member who said that he’d pray for him. The last couple weeks with the band had been on edge as well, treating Gabe like he’s a frail little stray dog that could collapse any minute. Now, with the advent of autumn on its way, Gabe is glad for a short and well-deserved break to relax, work on music, and most importantly, lose weight.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Pete mumbles into Gabe’s ear, wrapping his arms around his thin waist only seconds after they’ve crossed the threshold. They’d eventually started talking to each other, mutually agreeing to never speak of the previous rumor-related confrontation. “I missed you.” He presses kisses down the surface of Gabe’s skin, which had been cold during Warped but now, inside an air-conditioned apartment, has become _freezing._ “We have a lot to catch up on, don’t we?”

“Indeed,” Gabe says, eagerly leaning into his boyfriend’s touch. He knows he’s lost weight since coming off his plateau, but there’s no way it’s enough for it to show. If he’s home, he has to work hard, he has to reach his full potential. It’s been nearly _two_ years since the development of his eating disorder, and he’s _still_ nowhere close to his UGW. 2008 has to be the year he finally achieves it.

Gabe turns around. “Pete, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“I want to try something new.”

Pete raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Would you be okay with calling me a fatass?”

Pete looks him up and down. “Babe, you don’t even have any ass _left.”_

Gabe’s blood boils. He loves Pete, but it’s frustrating how blind he can be sometimes. Gabe has _plenty_ of ass left, plenty of pounds he still has yet to lose. “Fine,” he says tersely, turning away. “We don’t have to.”

Pete, somehow surprised he touched a nerve, cautiously asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Is this a self-esteem thing?” Pete asks. “Are you, like, self-conscious that you don’t have that much… ass? I’m not saying you don’t, but--”

“Yes,” Gabe swiftly answers, spinning back around. With an expression of uncertainty, he lies, “I mean, I know it’s stupid, but… I’m just worried there’s nothing for you to grab anymore.” _Lies. There’s far too much for Pete to grab. You could probably rip the fat off like chunks of play-doh._

“Oh, babe…” Pete pouts sympathetically, and pulls Gabe back toward him. “I promise you, there’s, like, a ton for me to grab.” His hand sinks into Gabe’s back pocket, squeezing his ass and thinking he’s helping. “I swear, especially in _these_ skinny jeans, it’s too obvious, too _tempting.”_

Gabe stifles a giggle through the nausea that rises in his stomach and rolls his eyes. “Sure, babe.”

“What, you don’t believe me?” Pete hisses playfully into Gabe’s ear. His hand slides out of Gabe’s back pocket and lands a slap on his ass instead, causing Gabe to gasp and jolt. “Get in bed and I’ll show you, _fatass.”_

By the end of September, Gabe loses five more pounds.

  
  
  
  


With the release of _Folie à Deux_ keeping the band busy, Pete isn’t home much. Gabe, usually tense, becomes strangely more relaxed with the constant absence. At one point, he binges and purges pizza for three days straight. He doesn’t look at the calendar on the fridge, either. The beginning of December is just binge and purge and call Pete and do it all again tomorrow, because every day is the same.

A couple weeks in, Pete drops his suitcase on the floor of the apartment after arriving home from some show halfway across the country, the last one of that year, and sighs when he sees the mess. Candy wrappers litter the coffee table, takeout boxes crowd the dining room table, and opened chip bags cluster the island counter.

“Gabe?” Pete calls out, wandering through the kitchen carnage. The stovetop is piled with greasy pans and empty, flattened boxes of veggie burgers and vegetarian chicken nuggets. Cookie and breading crumbs crunch under his sneakers. “I’m home! You here?” He stops in front of the fridge, and sees on the calendar that, scrawled in blue pen, Cobra Starship happens to have a recording session during this same time. Unbeknownst to Pete, it’s the first time Gabe has shaved and left the apartment in weeks.

With a grimace, Pete grabs a trash bag and sets to work cleaning up the mess before it can rot. He’s not too pleased that _this_ has to be the first thing he does after a long day at the airport and, instead of worrying about the cause of this mess, tries to decide what exact words he’ll say the moment he sees Gabe again. “This is _unacceptable--_ hm, no, sounds too much like my dad.” He finishes gathering up candy wrappers from the table and heads into the hallway. “I swear,” Pete mutters under his breath, wrapping his hand around the bedroom doorknob, “if you left food in here, too…”

The door swings open, revealing a half-eaten and messily cut pan of brownies to be sitting on the desk, a plate beside it. They still smell sweet and are warm and gooey to the touch, meaning Gabe must have made them recently. What Pete doesn’t know is Gabe had been cramming them in his mouth, still hot and burning his tongue, just an hour earlier before abandoning them to get ready for the recording sesh.

As he tries to decide what to do with the brownies, Pete catches a glimpse of the screensaver on Gabe’s laptop and puts down his garbage bag. He wipes his fingers on his jeans before placing one on the mousepad and moving it around, intending to unlock Gabe’s laptop to turn it off. The screensaver flickers to a forum site. Before he can even think about selecting power off, Pete’s eyes catch the title of the forum post, called, **_Help I can’t stop binging and purging while my bf is on a work trip._ **

Pete has a nasty feeling that he knows where this is going, even if the account has a different username than that exposed in the blog post. He continues to read.

**_Since my bf left for a work-related trip, I’ve been on a downward spiral. I literally can’t stop binging and purging and I feel like a fucking fatass for it. If any of my friends found out, I know they’d call me weak, and yet I can’t fucking stop. Today alone I’ve binged and purged at least 3000 and it’s not even dinner yet. HELP._ **

Pete glances down at the trash bag and finds himself stumbling back in shock. All that food while Pete was gone-- and possibly even more, the remnants left in the dumpster behind the building. Even so, it’s horrendous, the amount of takeout containers and bags and boxes piled up one on top of another. It’s more than Pete eats in a month, more than Gabe eats in several.

Nausea settles in the pit of Pete’s stomach. He was wrong.

So, so, so fucking _wrong._

  
  
  
  


“Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“You know exactly what.”

“......”

“Patrick, please--”

“It’s none of your business--”

“My boyfriend is fucking _dying,_ did you know or did you not?”

He sighs. “I did.”

“And…”

“William and Ryan are in on it, too. The blog post was right. I’m sorry, Pete. I’m so fucking sorry.”

_Click. Dialtone._

“I’m sor-- Pete? Pete?”

  
  
  
  


“Hey babe, I just wanted to let you know I just got home.”

Gabe shoots up from where he’s lounging on a bright couch in the studio, his heart racing at breakneck speed. “That’s awesome! I’m sorry about all the food everywhere… I, uh, kinda had a party last night. I hope you don’t mind, I’ll clean it up when I get back--”

“No, don’t worry, I already threw it out,” Pete says. Gabe expects him to shame him in some way for picking up the mess, but nothing comes. He decides his boyfriend must be in _way_ too good of a mood. “I’m gonna go to the grocery store soon, you want anything?”

“Remember to get more almond milk,” Gabe says. “Oh, and Chanukkah starts tomorrow night. Could you get candles for the menorah?”

Needless to say, Pete gets more than just candles for the menorah.

  
  
  
  


As soon as the shamash burns out, Gabe’s chair scrapes against the floor as he bolts up from his seat. “I don’t need _any_ fucking therapist,” he hisses, before he wavers and blinks glassily, seeing static as his body adjusts to standing up so fast. He places a hand on the back of his chair to steady himself.

“But _that_ happens whenever you stand up,” Pete points out.

“I’ve told you, it’s normal.”

“It is, in no way, _normal._ Babe, I’m tired of watching you starve yourself. You need help.”

“So you want me to get fat?” Gabe snaps. “Is that it? Is that why you made all these fucking latkes?”

“I just don’t want you to _die!”_ Pete pleads. “Please, Gabe, sit back down and listen to me.”

Gabe glances down at Pete once, fury burning in his eyes before he spits, “Fuck you,” and storms out of the kitchen. A few moments later, the slam of a hallway door resonates throughout the apartment. Pete sighs and buries his head in his hands, fingers pressed against his terse forehead.

But that’s not the last of it; this time, now that Pete knows, Gabe has no reason to turn on the shower or try to be quiet as he purges the few latkes he ate. His coughing and retching echoes from the bathroom, a sound that will forever be permanently etched into Pete’s memory.

  
  
  
  


Later, when Gabe thinks Pete’s asleep, he crawls into bed next to him and wraps his thin arms around Pete’s warm waist. Even with the thick tension that’s buzzed between them all night, he’s addicted to the heat that radiates off his boyfriend’s skin since he has none of his own anymore.

“Gabey?” Pete mutters sleepily under his breath. All the previous edge between them dissipates, and Gabe holds him tighter.

“Yeah?”

Pete rolls over to face him, eyes half-lidded with tiredness as he raises a hand to cradle Gabe’s cheek. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Don’t let it tell you otherwise, okay? You’re beautiful, no matter what you fucking do. You’re talented. You’re incredible. You’re amazing. You’re Gabe fucking Saporta, and I still can’t believe I get to be your boyfriend.”

A smile creeps onto Gabe’s lips, and he giggles lightly. “Okay, go to sleep.”

“I’m serious,” Pete says. He blinks, and his eyes are wider, more worried. “I only brought it up because I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you. Not like this.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“You can’t promise that.” Pete’s eyes flicker down to Gabe’s collarbone, and his thumb strokes across Gabe’s cheek. “Just tell me you’ll try.”

Gabe swallows the lump in his throat, and he pulls up the comforter, every square inch of his body that Pete isn’t touching cold. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You used to glow,” Pete says. “You used to be the brightest person in the room. You used to have so much energy. And this disease… it’s sapped it all from you. You don’t deserve that, babe.”

“But…” Gabe buries his head into Pete’s shoulder, and Pete notices even his lips are cold. “What if I do?” he murmurs.

Pete’s thumb continues to caress Gabe’s skin, and he leans in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You don’t. I promise, nothing you could do could make you deserve this.”

  
  
  
  


Gabe sleeps for thirteen hours, body worn out from the constant exercise and vomiting and general stress of the week. In the morning, the first thing he registers is a warm, sweet, and crispy aroma, sprinkled with tinges of cinnamon. On the nightstand, a plate clinks.

“Gabe?” Pete whispers, gently putting a hand on his shoulder. “I made you breakfast. French toast. Do you want to try a few bites?”

Gabe has not yet had the opportunity to decide whether french toast is a safe food or not, so he hesitates answering as he sits up with a groan. He glances over at the plate. Two slices of fluffy, golden french toast stacked on top of each other, drizzled in syrup and dusted with powdered sugar, topped off with a couple sliced strawberries and blueberries. He bites down on his tongue and admits, “It… looks like a lot.”

“You don’t have to eat all of it,” Pete says. “Whatever you don’t, I’ll put in the fridge. But just a couple bites, please?” He sits down at the edge of the bed, placing his own plate on his lap and raising his fork. “I’ll eat it with you, if that helps.”

After a few more moments observing the french toast, Gabe nods and slowly reaches for the plate, putting it in front of his crossed legs. Already, the scent accosts his nose with overwhelming flavor and fat. He closes his eyes and inhales, but that only imbeds the smell further.

“First bite,” Pete says, his knife and fork scraping on his plate as he cuts off a piece. “You ready?’

“Okay,” Gabe says breathily, opening his eyes. He tentatively reaches for the fork and presses it down on the corner of the toast, tearing a chunk off that is speared by his fork. He holds it in the air for a second, letting the excess syrup and powder drip off before raising it to his lips. Pete smiles as his lips close around his fork, and Gabe closes his eyes and lets the taste hit his tongue.

“Fuck,” Gabe almost moans. It’s too good. It’s more than he deserves. Still, he chews it, the flavor swirling around his mouth. “I didn’t know you were so good at cooking.”

“Well, I thought it’d probably help to make one of the few things I’m good at,” Pete says amusedly. “Should I make it again?”

“Maybe.” Gabe keeps chewing until it’s mush in his mouth, afraid to swallow until his body ultimately decides for him. It slides down his throat, the rest sticking to the roof of his mouth like an unliftable curse.

 _Fat,_ his brain says, _fat, fat, fat._

His fork falls out of his hand and clatters onto the plate, anxiety shooting up from his stomach.

“That’s all I can do,” Gabe chokes out, raking his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“You sure you don’t want to try one more--”

“I’m sure,” Gabe rushes out.

“Gabe--”

“I said I’m _sure,”_ he says through gritted teeth.

“Alright.” Pete hides his disappointment by standing up and picking up the plates. “It’ll be in the fridge if you want more later.”

“Thank you.”

Gabe’s stomach rumbles in protest as Pete leaves, but rather than indulge it, he just flops back and tries to fall asleep again in spite of the bright sunlight streaming through the windows.

  
  
  
  


“How’s your weight loss been going?” Ryan innocently asks, during the Decaydance Weightloss Competition’s next Skype call that’s become more of an unofficial monthly check-in than anything.

“Fine,” Gabe answers straightforwardly, not willing to admit that Pete’s been trying his best to make him recover. After all, recovery is failure. This morning brought with it strawberry pancakes, and afternoon cucumber sandwiches (a severely misguided attempt on Pete’s part, because they sucked ass). “I’ve only lost one pound this week.”

“Probably because your metabolism is slowing down,” Patrick suggests. “Maybe try eating some spicy stuff. I’ve heard it helps.”

“Sounds like some butterfly bullshit,” Ryan cuts in. “Just exercise more and eat less. It’s not that hard.”

“So tell me how you’ve been doing then, Ryan,” Gabe dares. “How much weight have you lost this week?”

“Three-point-six,” Ryan states pridefully.

 _“Three-point-six?”_ William demands. “How? I’ve been trying so fucking hard to lose weight before we go on MTV New Year’s Eve and I’ve barely lost anything.”

“Liquid fast,” Ryan answers. “All I’ve had for the past six days is water, diet coke, and vegetable broth. I do sit-ups and jog on the treadmill until I’m shaking, and then I take a cold shower. I’ve fainted twice this week, but it’s been worth it.”

“I don’t understand how you do it,” William mutters. “That sounds so fucking tempting, but I know I couldn’t do that without passing out on stage. And before you say it,” he glares at his screen, “no, fainting on stage is different than fainting on live TV for the entire country to see.”

“What have you been doing?” Patrick asks.

“I alternate between high and low restriction to keep my metabolism guessing,” William says, holding up and studying his hand. “So far, seems to be working. Except my nails are turning purple-y.” He holds it closer to the camera for them all to see the blemishes. “I bought iron supplements but I don’t know if they’ve helped at all, and I can’t paint my nails to hide it because I’m a fucking dude.”

“It’s 2008, no one will care if you paint your nails,” Gabe says. “You’ll still be called a fag either way.”

“Right, but I’d rather not on _live TV.”_

“We get it, you’re gonna be on MTV New Year’s Eve,” Ryan says. “Big fucking deal. It’s MTV, not Times Square. And it’s pre-recorded.”

“But you weighed more than me when _you_ performed in Times Square a few years back,” William mentions. “Just saying.”

“I didn’t even bring weight up.”

“You would have, anyways.”

A loud rap at the bedroom door causes Gabe to jump, and Pete calls out, “Babe, how’s writing going? I brought you a snack!”

“I’m fine!” Gabe yells back. “Bring the snack later, I’m busy!”

“Are you sure? You need to--”

“I’m sure, I’ll eat it later!”

“But it’s celery and--”

“Later, babe!” Finally, Pete’s light footsteps creak in the hallway as he sulks away in defeat, and Gabe turns back to his laptop. “Sorry about that.”

“Is he…” William uncertainly trails off. “...starting to catch on?”

Patrick noticeably looks away, already knowing, while Gabe falls silent. “I…” He sucks in a breath. “Yeah.”

 _“Awww,”_ William’s tone drips with sympathy, genuine but so overdone that it makes Gabe shiver with shame. “I’m so sorry. Is that why you only lost a pound this week?”

“If _Pete,_ of all people, has noticed,” Ryan says with a light, snarky chuckle, “then you obviously just wanted the fucking attention. And an excuse to eat.”

“No!” Gabe defends. “I don’t know how he fucking found out, honestly! I was acting completely normal when he got home!” His eyes dart to Patrick’s corner of the screen, where he’s mournfully looking off into space. “Stump, did you tell him? Because I swear, if you did--”

Patrick throws his hands up and swears, “No, I didn’t! I know just as much as you do, I promise! I would never try to sabotage you like _that,_ that’s a fucking Ryan thing to do!”

 _“A Ryan thing?”_ The force of the volume of Ryan’s shrill shriek can almost be felt from just Gabe’s shitty laptop speakers. _“A Ryan thing?_ What the _hell_ does that mean?”

Patrick, immediately regretting what just slipped out of his mouth, gapes. “Well… uh, I…”

“If anyone is trying to tear down this competition,” Ryan continues, “it’s Gabe! You’re a fucking attention whore!” Condescendingly, he asks, “How does it feel being _babied_ by your boyfriend like a fucking child, Gabe? How does it feel to be brought celery as a snack? Isn’t it fucking _demeaning,_ or do you actually enjoy this, because you just can’t fucking get enough of--”

“You think you’re so perfect?” Gabe snaps. “You told me all about your first purging attempt over voicemail, hypocrite. How does it feel that you’ve got a binge-purge subtype now instead of a squeaky clean anorexia diagnosis? You’ve never had any right to call any of us _weak.”_

A moment of terse silence passes, Ryan’s mouth hanging open before he insists, “It was once! Just once, I fucking swear! I haven’t done it since, I don’t--”

“Calm the hell down,” William interrupts, leaning on the armrest of his couch and pinching between his brows. “The malnourishment is really making you guys insane. Go eat your fucking celery, Gabe. And Ryan… I dunno, make a fucking cup of ice or whatever your skinny ass does.”

“Oh, _you_ can talk,” Ryan says. “We get it, you’re perfect, you’ve never fucking had to purge!”

 _“Perfect?_ But you’re…”

“I hope you faint on MTV and get inpatient!” Ryan cries. “No, I fucking hope _all_ of you faint and go inpatient! At least your bands fucking care-- no matter how hard I try, Brendon, Spencer, they’re _never_ going to fucking see how serious it is, and I’m going to have to die before they realize! You all have it so easy, I _have_ to think like this, and… and…” He chokes up, blinking furiously as he treads on the brink of tears. Silently, he mumbles, “I can’t escape and I never will.”

“Ryan…” Gabe says, but rather than face the effects of his outburst, Ryan slams his laptop shut and is thus disconnected from the Skype call.

  
  
  
  


“What’s on the celery?” Gabe asks, uncharacteristically quiet as he shuffles into the kitchen, hands stuck in the pockets of his baggy sweatpants. Pete glances up from his laptop and the numerous forms spread out on the dining table for some business venture or another.

“Peanut butter. And raisins,” Pete says with a light smile. “It’s called Ants on a Log, get it?”

“Very funny,” Gabe says, although his voice is still monotone. He pulls the plate across the kitchen island to himself and opens a drawer, digging out a knife. Using it, he starts to scrape away the raisin-dotted blobs of peanut butter, plopping them onto the plate so all he’s left with is a brown-streaked green stick.

Finally, Pete asks disappointedly, “Are you sure you can’t eat the peanut butter?”

“Can’t,” Gabe says, picking up another piece of celery. “Too many calories for a couple of fucking tablespoons. And there’s a lot of saturated fat, too.”

“You said you’d try.”

“I never said anything.”

“Then you need a therapist.”

Gabe glares at him momentarily before looking back down at the celery. “No. It’s just peanut butter.”

“It’s _more_ than that and you know that.”

“There’s nothing more to it. It’s fucking peanut butter.”

“Do you really think what you’re doing right now is normal? Getting rid of the peanut butter and raisins on just a couple sticks of celery?”

“Yeah.” He finishes with another piece of celery and eyes the temptingly peanut butter-coated knife for a moment before moving onto another stick. “It’s called caring about my health.”

“It’s not funny, Gabe.”

“I never said I was trying to be funny. I’m just stating the truth.”

Pete sighs and leans back, the dining table chair squeaking. “What happened? I know you weren’t working on music in there.”

Gabe pauses, before shaking his head. “I don’t know what you mean.” A glob of peanut butter falls onto the counter, but he doesn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead, he just keeps scraping and scraping at the celery, scraping and scraping until it’s all thin, watery green. “I _was_ working on music.”

  
  
  
  


“And up next, The Academy Is… performing their new single Summer Hair = Forever Young, from their recent album Fast Times at Barrington High…”

This year, with all going on, both Gabe and Pete had agreed on a lowkey New Year’s, just the two of them alone together again. Last time, their relationship had transpired; this time, Gabe doesn’t want anything to transpire, not when they’re watching MTV and waiting breathless for William to come on. He’s the only person Gabe has talked to since the fight over Skype, and only to brag about the dropping of water weight. Gabe doesn’t think it’s water weight; by now, with William’s BMI, there’s practically no room for anything but skin and bone.

His head tucked into Pete’s shoulder, Gabe watches as the song begins and the camera zooms in on William. The sight causes a shudder to roll down his spine. William’s fingers are toothpick-thin, his cheeks hollow, the shape of his waist more reminiscent of hip bones than any other shape. The fact he can walk on his narrow legs seems chillingly impossible, but he does it anyway, strutting around like a living skeleton.

“Do you want me to…” Pete reaches for the remote, but Gabe shakes his head. “Alright.”

A few seconds into watching the performance, Gabe asks silently, “Do you think he’s gonna…”

Pete tugs Gabe closer, feeling stronger the ominous chill radiating off his temperature-devoid skin. He hesitates, staring up at the TV before he says, “I don’t know.”

Gabe curls closer. He should be proud of William. He’s the exact definition of skinny, for everyone watching MTV New Year’s Eve to see. In fact, Gabe expected he would feel inspired by the picture.

Instead, he only feels sick, the emptiness of his stomach replaced by overwhelming nausea. He reaches for a sip of champagne, hoping it will help, but instead the burn only emphasizes the bitter acidity lingering in his mouth.

At one point, Gabe sits up straighter when he spots the ever-so-slightest moment of William’s eyes going glassy and his voice cracking toward the end of a line, but instead he keeps going, a dead man walking. He keeps expecting something to happen, _anything,_ but nothing. William continues to prance on the checkered stage platform and revel in the audience’s cheering when the song finishes. Anticlimactic, but of course the channel wouldn’t have aired the pre-recorded show if something had actually happened.

Pete breathes a sigh of relief as soon as the camera is off William and the channel switches to a commercial break. “That was…” He picks up the TV remote and hits mute, leaving them in silence. “He certainly looks…”

“Skinny,” Gabe finishes, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “And you probably think he needs help, too.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“That’s the thing.” He only glances up momentarily from picking at his jeans before looking back down and admitting, “I don’t know. If I say I do… it’s hypocritical.”

“But you deserve it just as much as he does.”

Gabe shrugs, leaving it at that. Maybe New Year’s Eve isn’t the best time to expose the Decaydance Weightloss Competition and how he had encouraged William, Patrick, and Ryan’s eating disorders, and vice versa.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about this right now,” Pete says, his voice soft, “but when New Year’s is over, could we at least--”

The incessant ringing of a cell phone startles Pete out of his attempt at convincing Gabe to try recovery. Swearing under his breath, Pete groans and fishes his cell phone out of his pocket. “Sorry, I swear I thought I’d turned it to silent--” He pauses. “Oh.”

“What?” Gabe asks, unsuccessfully suppressing the urge to look over his boyfriend’s shoulder. Brendon is calling. _Doesn’t he have anything better to do on New Year’s Eve?_ is the first thought that comes to mind, until he realizes that if Brendon is calling on literally _New Year’s Eve,_ it has to be important.

Pete wordlessly lifts his cell phone to his ear and answers, “Hello?” A couple tension-moments go by, Gabe barely able to hear much besides the muffled voice coming from the phone speakers. But he can see the way Pete’s brows raise, feel the way he sucks in a breath. Finally, Pete gulps and lowers the phone from his ear.

“It’s about Ryan,” Pete says, unconsciously pulling Gabe closer. “He’s in the hospital.”

“He’s in the hospital?” Gabe shoots up, eyes darting around the features of concern etched into Pete’s expression. “What? Why?”

Pete lifts the phone back to his ear and asks, “What’s going on?” As he hears the answer, he grimaces and turns to Gabe. “Do you… do you really want to know?”

Without hesitation, Gabe looks him dead in the eyes and eagerly insists, “Yes.”

“He tried to overdose.”

Gabe’s throat grows dry. “But…” he chokes on his own words, his gaze dropping to the floor as fast as his stomach does. In a mutter, he continues, “But why would he do that? He was... perfect.”

Pete, too distraught by the all-too-relatable news, can only nod in sympathy than give any comforting answer.

If anything, it’s the most ominous omen of the year to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm very sorry about Ryan. You'll have to wait until next chapter to find out more about that and how it affects everyone else ;) But yeah, this chapter was massively fucked wasn't it lol. Everyone's just suffering.
> 
> I'm gonna take a couple days to chill and work on other stuff before I start the next and hopefully last chapter, 2009, so idk when you can expect it exactly but probably somewhat soon as long as it's shorter than this one lol. I have a plan but still haven't decided on an ending so beware that more tags could potentially be added for that chapter, but likely not. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter ;)
> 
> my socials  
> instagram: lostinpacithicctime  
> twitter: inpacithicctime

**Author's Note:**

> And that's where 2007 ends ;) I have a lot of the 2008 chapter written, but please keep in mind I just started my second semester of college so it could take a bit for me to finish, edit, and post as it's much longer and needs more revision than this part did. I hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> (and yeah, i'll get back to my vampire shit eventually, don't worry I'm not dedicated to only ED shit rn)
> 
> (and yes I'm okay)
> 
> Instagram: @lostinpacithicctime  
> Twitter: @inpacithicctime


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